


this dance of days

by imprintofadream (imprint_of_a_doe)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Language, Firefighter Derek Hale, M/M, Minor Violence, Slow Burn, Teen Wolf Big Bang, Wildfire!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imprint_of_a_doe/pseuds/imprintofadream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels like the world stuttered to a halt and started rotating the other direction within the past few days, like the fire burned brighter only to push him into his proper place. Three days ago, he had no idea werewolves existed, had no idea Derek could be anyone other than Hale, and now he knows how it feels to be pressed up against him, knows how awkward Erica’s sideburns are, knows with absolute certainty that being taken off fire relief duty won’t tear him away from this group. </p><p>But fires have always been dangerous and unpredictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this dance of days

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [teen wolf big bang round three](http://teenwolf-bb.livejournal.com/)
> 
> all the beautiful artwork for this piece credited to [kate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1090138) / [tumblr](http://cocked-up.tumblr.com/post/70541844128/this-dance-of-days-by-imprint-of-a-dream-for). head on over to tell her how amazing it is, because i'm running out of words myself.
> 
> dedicated to all the emergency response personnel who risk their lives for us day in and day out, in every situation imaginable.

By the time they call in the task force from the Beacon County Sheriff's Department, the wildfire a county over races across land in three different counties to the south, aided and abetted by the wind from the northwest. Stiles watches the smoke filter into Beacon Hills whenever the winds change briefly, smells it wherever he goes. When the call comes in, his dad leaves a skeleton shift to manage the county and enlists every other able-bodied deputy in fire patrol.

Stiles gets to the department just before eleven at night, bundled up in his jacket and two pairs of socks in his boots, a small bag slung over his shoulder. Boyd offers him a cup of coffee without a word when he walks into the briefing room and leans against the wall by his partner. “Thanks,” he mutters, blowing across the top of it uselessly as he scans the room. Everyone looks serious and a little nervous; he catches one of the newer guys bouncing on his toes by the door.

Boyd scratches at his chin, fighting an exhausted yawn, and Stiles tries not to follow his example. He’s got a few hours of driving ahead of him, per his current position in the rock-paper-scissors tournament they engage in during every dull moment in the squad car. He swears Boyd must be psychic sometimes, because Stiles _never_ used to lose until they became partners. 

“I can’t believe this fire only started five days ago,” Stiles mutters, looking at the map up on the projection screen; the red boundary of the fire extends across far more land than he ever expected, even after hearing the acreage. He figured the mountainous terrain would help to contain the fire, but apparently it has no problems racing up hillsides and channeling through ravines, riding the wind around every bend and curve. 

Boyd sighs, shakes his head as he sips at his coffee while the other deputies filter in around them. All in all, by the time everyone is accounted for, there are twenty deputies crowded in and Stiles’ dad has to raise his voice over the muted, anxious murmuring until he can talk normally. He shrugs his jacket into place solemnly as he fills them in. 

“Alright, we’re splitting into three different divisions. The list is going around now, so please report to your sergeants when we’re done debriefing for more detailed instructions. For now, just know that we have a team redirecting traffic to the detour, a team set for evacs, and a team for every other thing the crews up there need from us. You’ll be working 24 hour shifts, and I would apologize if it weren’t a major necessity but they’re short on manpower as it is and they’re calling in forces from at least four other departments from as far away as Stockton and Sacramento. When we get up there, your sergeants will be communicating directly with the supervisors to determine your schedules each day. We’re setting out shortly, so get organized.”

Stiles takes one of the papers as it passes him, sees himself and Boyd assigned to the ‘everything’ team under his dad, that they leave for the base of operations up in the foothills in a mere thirty minutes. Heather meets his eyes across the room, smiles something small and apologetic as she reports to Sergeant Harris; Stiles sighs, but at least this way watching over his dad should be easier.

Tara steers Stiles and Boyd out to the parking lot, surrounds the Tahoes with the other members of their team. “While Sheriff Stilinski is prepping the head honchos up at base for our arrival, I’m letting you have the specifics. The other units will be task-oriented specifically, but we’re on call. Whether that means packing fire retardant in our backpacks and trekking the perimeter of the fire or even personally delivering coffee and bagels to the firefighters on duty, you will act diligently and in accord with our code of conduct. Do _not_ piss off the emergency crews or disrespect them, or I’ll suspend you from active duty when we get back.” She glares around at everyone, focuses for an extra few seconds on Stiles until he rolls his eyes at her. 

They head out twenty minutes later, backpacks stuffed into the trunks of the Tahoes and coffee cups tossed haphazardly into the break room sink. Stiles drives, lets Boyd wake up in the passenger seat as he watches the blaze in the sky draw closer. Against the otherwise clear night, the glow of the fire off the smoke above reminds him of the traditional renditions of Hell.

“What do you think we’re getting into?” he asks, leaning forward to look up. The smoke thickens around them until he can’t see the moon anymore. Visibility up here is said to be less than a mile, and that’s a gracious diagnosis in Stiles’ humble opinion.

“Whatever they need us to get into.” Boyd glances over at him, shrugs his massive shoulders. “Don’t look at me, Stilinski, I’ve never done this before either.”

“Yeah, first time for everything, I guess.” 

They fall silent under the looming presence ahead of them; he stretches his fingers against the steering wheel before curling them until his knuckles shine white in the dim light.

Stiles’ dad jerks his thumb over his shoulder and pointedly looks at Stiles until he sighs and gives in, following after the others. “Just, stay safe, okay? Promise me,” he demands, walking backward to keep his father in his sights until he gets an exasperated nod.

“Behave, kid. Go do your best.”

“Always do, Dad.” He salutes jokingly, grinning, but his smile slides off his face as he turns away. Being aware of the danger facing his dad as a kid had sucked, especially after his mom passed; as a fellow officer of the law, it never got any easier. Boyd jostles his arm, draws him back into himself just in time for someone to hand him a heavy backpack. He shoulders it with a bit of difficulty, tightens the straps on Boyd’s and waits for the woman in front of them to give their instructions. 

“All right, folks, listen up! My name is Allison Argent, from Engine 12 of the Cal Fire branch in Hill Valley. I know we’re all emergency personnel,” she starts, fingers looped through the suspenders holding up her uniform pants; her dark gaze sweeps the group in front of her, sharp and focused. “This is our territory, though. If anyone in the world knows best what to do up here, it’s the firefighters. Treat us as your team leaders and fucking _listen_ when we talk. This isn’t a game. If we give you an order, it’s for a damn good reason, and going against it will only hinder our fight against this thing. That being said, do _not_ challenge our orders or we might toss you in the fire ourselves.”

A nervous laugh goes through the crowd of officers gathered around; the generator-run lights above illuminate the blue of municipal city departments, the familiar tan jackets of sheriff’s deputies and CHP officers. Stiles shifts on his feet, swallows sharply and looks back at the firefighter as she waits for them to quiet. She bites her lip, stands taller even as her fingers slide down her suspenders again.

“This wildfire has eaten through nearly a hundred thousand acres of land—that’s over a hundred and fifty square miles. It’s pretty much doubled in size since yesterday morning and shows no signs of slowing yet. _This_ is what we’re up against. There’s no possible way to win against something like this; we can only attempt to catch up with it.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles mutters. Boyd silences him with a look as the woman continues, her eyes turning toward them.

“As such, you’ll be working closely with firefighters up here. Over 2000 of us reported to the edges of the fire for duty so far. Deputy Chief Laura Hale commands the companies based here specifically—approximately three hundred individuals as of last night. At any time, two hundred and fifty of those individuals are risking their lives battling the fire directly and doing everything they can to help. We’ve got one helicopter helping in this corner and two pilots lodging in base camp. Where we need _you-_ -” She pauses, shrugs. “Right now, our most pressing concern is laying down a perimeter of fire retardant on the ground. We’ve bulldozed a line that the fire shouldn’t be able to cross, but—well, it’s already jumped more than a few ridges, obviously.”

Argent rolls her shoulders, rests her hands on her hips and looks up at them seriously. “I’ll be going out myself with your teams, along with the others from my company. We’ve got a long way to go so the trucks are gonna drive us out and remain with us, make sure we have extra fire retardant to lay down and all, provide light.” She looks around at them all one last time. “I need you to split right down the middle. Right half, please proceed to the engine on your left. Captain Whittemore will take you from there. Left half, follow me.” 

Stiles follows Argent to the engine parked nearby, sees the six other firefighters rushing around and lifting heavy bags into the truck, paying almost no attention to the ten or so officers gathered. “Make sure you’ve got secure footholds and handholds,” she says, stepping up onto the runner along the side of the rig. The others pile on, rushing to finish their last preparations, and Stiles ends up squished between a sergeant from Stockton PD and a tall firefighter who offers them both a strained smile.

He nods down the side of the rig as it begins to pull out. “Ever done anything like this?” he asks.

The other officer shakes her head, fingers tightening around her handhold, and Stiles shrugs, grins a bit. “Kind of similar to kite boarding, maybe.” 

He’s never been so nervous on a board before, though, and the the firefighter laughs like he knows it, says, “Only in your dreams. I’m Isaac Lahey.”

“Stiles,” he says, glancing at the woman on his left. She adjusts her grip again, presses herself closer to the side of the engine as it pulls out of the base camp and onto a dirt road obviously recently bulldozed. “Kali,” she offers shortly. 

They shut up when the truck starts kicking dirt into their faces, smoke burning in their eyes; the fire burns close enough to light the sky orange above them, close enough that Stiles sees it glinting off the dirt-covered red of the engine. By the time the truck slows, his muscles tremble with the strain of hanging onto the side, and he jumps down gratefully when they come to a complete stop, shaking out his arms. 

Isaac ushers him and Kali into a little huddle with the others, where everyone checks flashlights and water bottles, works out a buddy system, agrees on a meeting time and a distress signal, hands out the walkie talkies. Stiles ends up paired with Kali while Boyd gets assigned to a blonde firefighter; they share glances across the circle, silently wishing each other luck, and Stiles waves shortly as he and Kali take off down the line for their first trip.

“So,” Stiles says, ten minutes into the silence. It’s burdensome, more so than the heavy bag sloshing on his back. The fire sounds horrendously loud, even this far away, and he can’t imagine being up close and personal with it. “Stockton, huh?”

Kali sighs, adjusts her grip on her flashlight. “Yeah, I’m a member of the SWAT team over there. Much different territory.”

“How long was your drive?” 

She looks back towards the others behind them, like she regrets standing close enough to get paired off with him, but answers. “Two hours, give or take.”

“Huh,” he says. He’s not sure how to proceed, whether he should or not. It’s nearing 2am now, and his feet kick up dust as he walks, stumble across rocks he can’t see. He prays to god there aren’t snakes out here, that the rattlers fled the area as the fire spread. His boots are thick but he doesn’t want to test them against a rattlesnake’s fangs.

They walk for about half an hour before agreeing to start laying a line down, headed back the way they came until they meet up with the pair behind them. Stiles takes a fresh backpack from the runner who comes to check on them, trudges onward behind a disinterested Kali. He misses Boyd’s very specific judgey-silence.

The sun rises as they make it back to the truck for the last time, muscles sore and tired; the pile of jackets hung over the side of the wheel wells on the truck has grown with the heat and exertion since their last check-in, Stiles’ buried near the bottom. 

Argent checks them in on her clipboard when they stumble back, gestures for them to set their empty packs down in the pile on the ground. Stiles knows they covered a few miles of perimeter, at least, hopes the fire falters at the line. 

Boyd finds him as they’re waiting for everyone to gather again, leans against the rig next to him. “Okay?” he asks, and Stiles nods, nudges him with his elbow. 

“Yeah, you?”

“Fine,” Boyd says, staring out toward the fire, the sunrise behind it barely visible through the new white plumes. “Did you listen to the reports over the radios last night?”

Stiles sighs, rubs at his eyebrow. “Yeah, man, I can’t fucking believe this thing.”

“Reyes told me this set to be one of the largest fires in California’s history.” 

“Your partner?”

Boyd shrugs. “We talked, mostly about what she does and the rest of her department. I think we’ll be working the same shifts with them until we leave.”

Argent waves at everyone just then, yells to load back up, and the twenty-minute return trip exhausts him even more than the trip out after walking all night. His legs shake by the time they unload, and Argent waves them toward one of the mess tents. “C’mon, we’ve got an hour to scarf down some food and get prepped for the next line.”

Stiles thinks there must be twenty rigs parked right now, knows that the other thirty-odd are on-duty. The helicopter circles above them, obviously taking off for the day as they meander through the mess line. 

Boyd leads them over to a table, sets his tray down and pushes Stiles’ shoulder until Stiles sits. When he looks up, Isaac grins at him over a plate of slightly rubbery scrambled eggs and cold toast. “How’d it go?”

“How many days have you been doing this?” Stiles asks, half-emptying his cup of coffee as Isaac chews and swallows. 

“Four days so far, two short shifts off and three long on.” He waves over his head, smiles as three others half-dressed in heavy-duty firefighting gear descend on their table. Stiles recognizes the blonde as Boyd’s partner from last night.

“Everyone, this is Stiles and… shit, sorry, man,” Isaac says apologetically, nodding at Boyd. “I’m Isaac, never got a chance to meet you last night.”

“Boyd,” he offers, sipping his coffee. His eyes flick back to the blonde, who grins at him and takes a bite of her apple ostentatiously, chewing even as she says, “This is Scott,” while gesturing at the guy with floppy dark hair at Stiles’ side. “And Derek,” she adds, jerking her head toward the guy at her left. “‘m Erica.”

Scott grins at him, but Stiles is too busy maybe-staring at Derek, who seems to be one hundred percent focused on peeling his orange. There’s still dirt stuck under his fingernails, hands calloused and scarred but beautiful and strong, capable. Stiles immediately thinks about how they’d feel on the insides of his thighs, flushes all the way up his chest and face, and turns to thrust a hand out at Scott.

“Hey, yeah, hi, I’m Stiles,” he blurts, silently thanking all deities for the fact that Scott simply smiles wider and shakes his hand.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Scott says, turning toward his plate. “How long are you guys up here?”

Stiles glances at Boyd, shrugs. “Probably the next three days, depends on the shifts my dad scheduled. We’ll probably trade out with the guys back home, maybe rotate through the teams here.”

“Your dad?” Isaac asks. He glances sideways at Erica and Derek next to him, reaches around Erica to jab Derek in the arm when he sees the other man staring down at the table, expressionless. Derek looks up with an impressive glare on his face; Stiles sinks lower on his bench across the table, but Isaac merely lifts an eyebrow at Derek before focusing on Stiles again.

“His dad’s Sheriff Stilinski,” Boyd answers for him. He’s looking at the fruit on the edge of Stiles’ plate with interest, so he slides it over and steals Boyd’s now-soggy toast. “He’s buddies with the Cal Fire Chief in charge of this division, offered us up on a silver platter to lend a hand.”

“Dude, you work with your dad?” 

Stiles shrugs at Scott. “Yeah, it helps me keep an eye on him. He’s crafty, okay, I have to be on Dad-patrol at all times. Like, actual patrol is _nothing_ compared to Dad-patrol.”

Erica snorts into the remains of her apple before dropping the core on Isaac’s empty paper plate. “Fire patrol is probably a little more challenging.” 

“Well, yeah, probably,” Stiles admits. “Still, you try telling my dad he can’t have another cup of coffee! I’m lucky he’s never shot me!”

“Few close calls, though,” his dad says from behind him, and Stiles looks up over his shoulder suspiciously. “Like that time you ‘borrowed’ a prison transport van when you were sixteen.” The Sheriff raises his eyebrows, thumbs tucked into his duty belt like the most self-righteous of fathers; Stiles scoffs. “How’d you guys do last night, Deputy Boyd?”

“Fine,” Boyd answers, spinning around to straddle the bench. “Lot of work, though.”

“Let’s hope it pays off.” His dad sighs, looks at Stiles a little more sharply. “Make sure you’re reporting in to Tara whenever the squad splits up. In her absence, you represent the department _and_ me. Lead by example, Stiles.”

“Learned from the best, Dad.” He grins, tries not to show how much he actually kinda _does not_ want his dad here, like, at all. It can’t be good for him to breathe in all this smoke, to stay up without sleep for twenty-four hours straight; Stiles remembers him pulling all-nighters at his mom’s bedside, remembers curling up against his side and falling asleep only to wake up hours later and find he hadn’t moved. Stress eats away at him in the same way it does Stiles, makes them both anxious and prone to blaming every failure on themselves. Stiles’ mouth twists his smile into something bitter. 

His dad rolls his eyes, claps him on the shoulder as he nods to the rest of the table before continuing his rounds through the rest of the deputies. His shoulders fall forward and Stiles frowns at his back, slowly turning toward the table after a moment just in time to see Erica craning her neck to look after the Sheriff, expression downright predatory.

“ _Oh_ my god, that’s my _dad!_ ” Stiles yelps, scandalized.

“You better hope to God you look like him when you get older, Stiles, because _holy_ —”

“Erica.” Derek finally chimes in, his voice deceptively calm and smooth as he gathers trash. “Come on, we have to report to Allison.”

Stiles stares, curious, as the rest of them gather their stuff and stand up; Derek doesn’t look up, doesn’t say another word, and the others quiet around him, orient themselves toward him. Scott and Isaac still shoot matching wide smiles over their shoulders as they follow him out of the mess hall, waving, and Boyd shakes his head. 

“Firefighters,” he sighs, and Stiles nods absently.

Tara flags them down on their way back from the Tahoe where they’d traded out their warmer clothes for something they’ll last the day in; already it feels 90 degrees, the sun hot even through the smoke around them. “Stilinski, Boyd, with me!”

They troop over quickly and Stiles glances around, sees Braeden pushing her way forward to prop herself on his shoulder. She grins, squeezes, and Boyd smiles back briefly. “How’d it go the other way?”

“Peachy, but Captain Whittemore is a fucking douchebag, man, like if he wasn’t a firefighter I might drape a few completely legitimate parking tickets over his Porsche,” she says, rolling her eyes. “How was Captain Argent?”

“She’s a Captain?” Stiles asks. “Dude, we had no idea.”

Tara shuts them up with a warning look and tells them they’ll be trooping out with the firefighters again toward the front lines. She frowns, vaguely worried, and Stiles offers her a reassuring grin; she doesn’t return it. 

“We won’t be investigating the cause of the fire until we can get closer to the canyon where it started. Our major concern today is the perimeter and doing exactly what the firefighters ask of us. The Deputy Chief is going up with the helicopter right now to see the extent of the fire’s overnight growth and she’ll be coming back with more of a battle plan in place, but for now it’s maintaining the fireline and backing up the firefighters further in.”

“How much further in?” someone asks from the back of the group.

“As far in as they need to go. That may put you in close proximity to the front line, and in that case I need you all to be careful, to listen to orders and not take reckless chances. No heroics. You’re simply back-up on this call. You protect everyone, communicate, keep people informed, fetch waters if they tell you to. I’m not going to explain this too many more times, Deputy Greenberg, so please for the love of God stop asking during group briefings.”

Braeden turns her face into Stiles’ arm to muffle her snickers, and Boyd’s lips quirk up in a satisfied smirk. 

By the time they’re huddled in the bed of a Cal Fire pickup, trundling out to whatever part of the line they’re reporting to, Braeden has already punched Stiles in the ribs for _no reason,_ sassed Greenberg so many times that even Boyd’s smile hasn’t faded yet, and told Stiles, to his chagrin, that someone from the next town over brought donuts to a strategy meeting and she saw his dad eating a jelly-filled one. Stiles has words saved up for when they get back.

It’s good to have her, though. Of all the new deputies, Stiles believes she is by far the most badass, and having her around makes him slightly less nervous about being so close to something so wild. 

They’re working with a company from Sacramento for most of the morning, odds and ends as far as duties go, but Stiles never relaxes. This close, up here, the smoke wafts endlessly, heavy and suffocating; half of the shrubbery underfoot crunches beneath his boots, dry and black, smouldering even still. Despite all the noise around them—the crash from further in, the yells between the crew, the crackle of radios and brush, the noise level unnerves him. Even in Beacon Hills, he’s used to birds, used to the small sounds a forest makes, and the racket out here sounds ever louder for the absence of the natural cacophony. 

He, too, quiets as the day wears on; his throat starts to hurt, his eyes burn, and Boyd keeps swiping at his face as if the dirt and dust and ash wipe off. Even Braeden tires, the previous night catching up with them all. His boots weigh five pounds too many.

They head in with the Sacramento crew when their relief shows up at six; someone brought out lunch around noon, but they barely remember. He has no idea how the firefighters focus in conditions like these, knows comparatively that his job is relatively safe despite the public hate and the all-too common accidents. He admires them, that they can do this, be brave in such a way, and then he remembers Heather’s face when they found the kid last year whose bike had been tangled in the axles of a big rig, remembers a different kind of bravery as she knocked on the parents’ door. 

He’s too exhausted for this right now, climbs up in the back of the truck and slumps down rather than sitting on the edge again; Braeden curls up under his arm, and Boyd tangles his boots with Stiles’ from the other side. Obviously both of them feel it too, feel the helplessness that’s been creeping over Stiles all day, feel how much bigger and stronger this thing is than any mere human with a hose and an axe.

“One more shift before naps, right?” Braeden nuzzles up against him and he has to grin even though his eyes remain closed. Tactile though she is, her general shows of affection come in random taps and punches and squeezes, short smacks of contact that sting for just a moment afterwards. He tightens his arm around her briefly, turns his nose into her temple. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, tilting his head back as he pushes her hair away from her forehead. “Totally nap time.”

Allison Argent sits next to Stiles in the mess tent, nearly knocks his juice box over and apologizes quietly; the rest of her company mutely fills in the gaps at the table, Scott squished between Braeden and Bennett, Erica huddled up at Boyd’s side across from Stiles. Someone hesitates at his shoulder before Derek sinks down next to him, Isaac just behind, and this time Stiles _actually_ knocks his own juice box over. He’s just thankful he hasn’t opened it yet as he scrambles to set it upright.

“Can you not?” Derek mutters, and Stiles’ eyebrows leap up his forehead.

“Maybe?” he says, and Derek looks up with wide eyes, like Stiles surprised him by responding.

“What?”

“Uh, nothing, I—yeah, no, sorry, shhh.” Stiles stuffs a forkful of cold spaghetti in his mouth, looks across at Boyd with wide eyes. Boyd chooses, probably wisely, to ignore the plea in his gaze and continues eating calmly. 

Stiles kind of hates his partner sometimes.

The firefighters are quiet, drained and disheartened. Erica actually falls asleep on Boyd’s shoulder for a moment or two, Isaac and Scott staring down at the table while Stiles struggles not to drop his meal entirely. Having Derek next to him certainly helps him stay awake, but his hand-eye coordination suffers from his lack of sleep; he kind of desperately wants Derek to take his attractiveness away, like, ASAP so he can eat without being embarrassed about the semi he’s sporting. He doesn’t know how he’s even _able_ to conceive of sex right now, but his dick never really listened during any other time in his life either, so expecting it to cooperate now pretty much faces the same odds as putting this fire out within the next week. Still, in a fucked up way, it’s nice having Derek next to him, quiet and calm and close. 

He nearly jumps out of his seat when Braeden kicks him underneath the table, her heavy boots sure to leave a bruise despite the lack of full force. “ _Fuck_ , Braeden, what the hell?”

Argent startles next to him, dark eyes darting up just in time to see Braeden nod her head at Derek. She and Stiles both turn to look, catch the snarl across his face as he stares toward the other side of the mess tent. Argent draws in a sharp breath and Stiles turns back to her, questions clear on his face, mouth open to ask; she launches herself off the bench and disappears in the direction Derek’s looking without giving him an answer.

“ _O_ kay,” Stiles mutters, “wanna share what that’s about? Should we be worried?”

Derek’s glare swings to Stiles after a moment. He ignores the thrill it sends through him and raises his eyebrows, calmly eating the last bite from his plate. “None of your business,” Derek snaps, voice cold, and Stiles fights not to recoil, frowns anyway. Despite his silence, Derek hadn’t seemed antagonistic to him until this moment. Maybe the lack of sleep finally caught up to him after so long; Stiles shifts in his seat. 

“Considering you look like you could happily murder someone with your axe right now, I’m not so sure,” Bennett mutters from the other end of the table. Stiles snorts in agreement.

“Look, we’re all tired, okay, no need to make it worse by fighting,” Boyd says, expression flat. 

Isaac resettles on Derek’s other side and Scott nods, adds, “Yeah, guys, let’s just get through these last few hours. Once we’ve all slept it’ll be easier.” 

“Sure,” Derek snaps, “whatever you say, Scott.”

“Derek, just drop it,” Isaac mutters, knocking their shoulders together. “Scott’s right, and so is Boyd.”

“Whatever.” Derek swings himself off the bench before stalking away, half-full paper plate dropped in one of the large garbage bins on his way out. Stiles rubs at his ribs, where Derek’s boot connected as he stood.

“What’s his problem?” he mutters, glaring at the spot where Derek disappeared.

Argent darts across his field of vision, her hand strong around the bicep of a blonde woman whose smile sits strange across her face, and Stiles blinks; even from this distance he can see the strain in Argent’s grip, the tense lines around her mouth as she speaks swiftly and the woman laughs, pats her fingers before easily pulling away after him. Argent’s hands clench into fists as she stares. 

Something cold settles in his bones, and Stiles turns away.

Of course Tara and Argent pair Stiles with Derek, of fucking course. When Stilinski and Hale are called, Derek turns an impressive stink-eye upon him and Stiles figures it out, sighs. He thinks longingly of reclining in the backseat of the Tahoe, thinks about using it to run Derek over until he can bear to approach.

“Don’t talk to me,” Derek says immediately when Stiles reaches his side. 

Stiles hears Greenberg snicker as he passes behind them, tries not to bristle and fails completely. “The entire point of tonight is making sure all the crews have working radios, okay, communication is pretty damn important, dude.”

“Why didn’t they have everyone exchange them when they ate dinner?” Derek glares at Stiles like it’s _his_ fault, and, okay, see, Stiles is at fault for a _lot_ sometimes but this isn’t one of those times, and he glares back just as well, neither of them moving from their stand-off until Tara appears next to them, pointing them away and offering a backpack full of newly charged radios. 

“Get going,” she says. “You have three crews to find out in the forest before you get back. Their radio points have been called in and you have a map on your phone, Stilinski, so use it.”

“Yessir, Deputy Graeme.” She tilts her head at Stiles challengingly, watches with approval as he turns smartly on his foot and marches forward without waiting for Derek.

“Check in frequently!” she calls after them. 

Stiles waves a hand over his shoulder. “Sure thing, boss lady!”

Derek—Hale—catches up with him a few feet later, wide shoulders brushing Stiles’ as he repositions the bag of radios on his back. Stiles forces himself not to shove back and pulls up the map on his phone instead, squinting at the bright screen. “Okay, first company is about a mile in from the line, due southeast from our current position. Looks like, uh, Commander Blake, maybe?”

Hale grunts. These last few hours are gonna _suck_.

It’s not an easy trek in the quickly-fading light; Stiles trips on hidden branches and rocks, catches the toes of his boots in grassy knots. By the time they get close to the first company, the fire roars bright ahead of them, a dark flickering light cast against the sky and the dry forest around them. Stiles slows slightly, fights to calm his heart rate even as Hale continues charging ahead. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters, jogging a bit to catch up. He jostles Hale on accident and darts out of reach, expecting retaliation. 

“You can’t be nervous around it,” Hale says suddenly. Stiles flinches and trips over yet another hidden obstacle, arms windmilling until Hale sighs shortly and reaches to steady him; his grip is firm through Stiles’ jacket and Hale’s own gloves. “Just… you need to be calm. When you’re hasty or when you act without thinking, fires like this take advantage. They jump across your barriers and out of your boundaries if you split your attention for even a second. You _have_ to calm down when we’re this close or you’ll set _me_ off.” 

Hale’s eyes flicker in the muted light and Stiles swallows, nods even as he tears his gaze and his arm away. “Okay. I—yeah, sorry, got it. Uh, thanks, for the warning.”

“You’re not used to it.” Hale's voice is soft as he steps back. “Which is why they shouldn’t have called you in. There’s not a lot to do up here for for people who aren’t trained in this.”

Stiles bristles at this; it’s worse on the heels of Hale’s near-gentleness. He’s too tired to deal with this swinging back and forth tonight, too confounded by Hale’s sharp bone structure being so indicative of his pointed rebukes. “They called us in because you need _help,_ whether you realize it or not. It’s not my fault they’re not utilizing everyone’s skills to their best advantage—it hasn’t escaped my notice that your crew hasn’t been on the frontlines yet, either. I didn’t divvy up tasks myself, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like you’re better just because you’re angry and helpless.”

“I’m not angry _or_ helpless! That’s not the problem!” Hale shoves him back against a tree, hands clenched in the front of Stiles’ jacket, and he’s so far from 'not angry' that Stiles just loses it: he laughs, something sharp and ugly that bounces off the dry forestry around them, wild and dangerous and high like the flames just ahead now.

Hale rips himself back, jaw clenched; his eyes fairly _glow_ red as they reflect the light. “I told you not to talk to me.”

“Why, because it makes you want to murder me? Maybe _that’s_ why they called us in, to keep the peace or make the appropriate arrests in the case of mysterious disappearances. Has your company lost anyone to the fire yet, Hale?”

“Shut up! You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Stiles shuts up, gaping. “I— _have you?_ ”

Hale shudders, looking trapped as he grips the straps of his backpack. “Look, just—stop trying to make friends with my company, okay? We’re—none of us are right, none of us know how to—just back the fuck off, Stilinski.”

He takes a step back, gaze still boring into Stiles for another moment before he turns and walks away properly. 

“You’re going the wrong way,” Stiles calls weakly even as he scrambles away from the tree; Hale ignores him, leads them in somehow, even when Stiles loses cell signal. 

The icy knot in his stomach that made its appearance during dinner stays with him for the rest of their silent shift.

Stiles stumbles back to the Tahoe next to Boyd, and loses spectacularly in their quick scuffle over who gets the backseat versus who gets the passenger seat. He settles up front with a disgruntled kind of grace, propping his feet up on the dash as he tilts the seat back. “You suck, dude,” he mutters to the ceiling.

“Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles.”

“What do you think Hale meant earlier, about them not being—?”

“—Shut _up.”_

He does, sighing heavily as he stares up at the ceiling of the car; he closes his eyes when he can’t take the red glow of the flames anymore, when he’s followed his thoughts in circles again and again and still not come to a feasible conclusion about Derek Hale and Company. Despite the ache in his bones and the fog in his mind, he only manages a few hours of sound sleep before Braeden taps on the windshield. 

As if he needed more reason to resent Hale.

Halfway through the next afternoon, Stiles spots his dad and breaks away from his group to sidle up to him silently, trying not to derail his conversation.

His dad sighs, fixing him with a disapproving eyebrow, but chooses to ignore the interruption otherwise as he turns back to the woman next to him. “Laura, believe me, I get it, but you need all your crews out fighting the fire. My deputies might not know much about firefighting, but they can figure out how to route short cuts and set up back-up plans. They have the skills necessary to accomplish basic tasks without babysitters.”

Laura’s shaking her head as he finishes, her grey eyes surrounded by worry-lines. She can’t be more than thirty-five, but she looks like the weight of the entire Stanislaus National Forest is on her shoulders. “Look, Sheriff Stilinski, I’m sure that’s true, but we’re stumbling over ourselves up here. We’re disorganized, sloppily planned, and stretched thin despite our numbers. Having so many officers underfoot from so many different areas is complicating things.” 

“So send some home, then,” he says, shrugging. “Send the officers from Nevada back over the border. Send the cops from Redding back upstate. Keep the ones close by so we can call in backup should you change your mind.”

She scratches the back of her head with both hands, fighting back a yawn. “Maybe. I just—I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in a few days now. Everytime I try to rest, something comes up and I just— _can’t._ ”

Stiles frowns, looks at his dad sharply when he admits, “Yeah, me too.”

“Dad, your doctor said you shouldn’t even be here,” he snaps, forgetting he’s not involved. “If you’re going to ignore him, please at least fucking _try_ to take care of yourself.”

“Don’t you dare, Stiles.” His dad’s temper flares immediately, defensively. “This isn’t the time.”

“When is?” he demands. “When are you going to start taking your health seriously, Dad? When you miss the birth of my future children because you’re in the hospital yourself? When you can’t visit Mom because you’re not able to anymore?”

His dad’s face closes off and Stiles _refuses_ to feel guilty for guilting him in the first place.

“Go back to Deputy Graeme, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his tongue, inclines his head at an obviously-surprised Laura, and turns on his heel to stride away. His throat burns.

Boyd catches his eye from the front of the group when Stiles stops at the back, eyebrows questioning, and Stiles shakes his head and mouths, “later.” 

They’re set to join the evacuation teams in door to door escorts for the rest of the evening as the fire threatens more of the small towns in the area. It’s stressful work, informing homeowners and families that it’s time to go, time to leave their things behind and hope for the best. Stiles hates it, lets Boyd do the talking while he stands silent in the background for backup. The fight with his dad festers in his mind as he watches people packing their possessions, watches them lock up their houses with lingering touches and forgetful glances. 

He thinks about how dangerous the entire situation at base camp is, thinks about the fire lines not holding and the panic over the radio twenty minutes before dinner when the fire jumped a ridge again, closer and closer to base. His dad ignores him during dinner in the mess, and Stiles can’t eat.

Scott settles in at his side, guileless and tired. He looks beat down, smells like smoke more than anything else; there’s ash all over his boots, his hair swept into stiff curls by dried sweat.

“You look like you had an eventful day,” Stiles says finally. 

“Yeah, dude, they finally sent us forward. One of the other chiefs questioned Laura and she had to let us go.”

“Laura? Like, the Laura my dad was talking to?” 

Scott glances at him sideways, shrugs. “Dunno who your dad was talking to, but Laura’s the Deputy Chief in charge up here right now. She’s, uh, Derek’s older sister, and she’s a bit protective of us. I mean…” He trails off and sighs. “We had a pretty bad accident last year, um, lost a few people and she’s been… we were off active-duty for a while, all of us. This is the first time we’ve been back in the game for something so big.”

“Holy shit.” Stiles stares at him, swivels his head around to stare at Laura Hale calmly sipping coffee next to his dad. “That’s why Hale’s got his panties in a twist.”

Next to him, Scott chokes on the hamburger he just took a bite out of. “Bha—” Stiles pounds his back until Scott’s eyes are watering as he finally swallows. “Stiles, _what?_ ”

“Hale? Derek? We got assigned to work together last night and he threw me against a tree, man, like, he’s got problems.”

Scott pales. “What did you say to him?”

“Uh, I told him to get off my dick about being paired together last night? He pretty much hates me for no reason.”

“I—no, no, Derek’s just—he’s dealt with a lot. I’m not trying to make excuses, because he’s an asshole, that part is _definitely_ true, but he’s also just a dude, you know? We all have off-days, and this fire is making everyone testy.”

“ _You_ haven’t shoved me around,” Stiles mutters, waving his plate over to Scott when he eyes the fries. “How was it being out there, anyway?”

“Terrifying,” Scott answers promptly. “I’m exhausted, man, you wouldn’t believe this thing. Like, this region gets wildfires all the time, right, but none of them move _this_ fast. Nobody’s been doing controlled burns up here and we’ve been having dry winters for years, so the trees and brush are just kindling waiting for that first spark. Plus all the younger trees pretty much just help the fire jump up into the taller ones, and it’s just a disaster, you know?”

“Think we’ll have to move base camp?”

Scott looks dismayed but shrugs around a mouthful of fries. “Maybe? Hopefully not. I mean, we have another helicopter now, so when one’s dumping retardant, the other’s dousing the trees in the path of the fire with water from the reservoirs nearby to make it more difficult for things to light. Only thing is, ground is so dry that it’s just turning into run-off instead of staying.” He yawns fiercely, then, giving Stiles a perfect view of the clumps of fries sticking to the roof of his mouth. “But, uh, if we don’t have to move, there are a few of us getting together on our next off-shift tomorrow afternoon to play a game of lacrosse if you wanna join in.”

“Lacrosse? Seriously? Dude, you definitely grew up near Beacon Hills.”

Scott smiles, says, “Well, yeah, I grew up in Hill Valley.”

“Dude!” Stiles laughs, knocks his shoulder against Scott’s. “You probably kicked my ass during lacrosse season at some point, then. Danny and Boyd were the best players we had.”

“I _knew_ I recognized Boyd!” Scott slaps his hand down on the table, grinning. “Isaac told me the smoke was going to my head.”

“Oh, honey, the smoke gets to a lot of people around here.” The voice from behind them is low, sultry and calm, but Stiles’ shoulders tense with surprise as he glances up at the woman. 

She smiles down at them, beautiful and charming; her eyes are dark, assessing as they roam over Stiles’ face, nails sharp where she curls her fingers over Scott’s shoulder. “Hey, kid.”

“Sorry, don’t think I’ve met you,” Stiles says on autopilot, controlling his urge to shift in his seat. His palms feel sweaty and he doesn’t understand, but his instincts have never led him astray thus far and something about her makes them _scream_ to get away. 

“Sheriff’s kid, right?” she asks, smile still in place. “I’m Kate Argent, Allison’s aunt and an outside advisor on the fire.”

“Advisor. Uh, right,” Stiles repeats, blinking as his mind whirs through the infrastructure of the camp as he understands it. He can’t place her until he connects her to Arge— _Allison’s_ abrupt departure from the dinner table last night on the heels of Hale’s weird behavior. He realizes Hale, though tired, hadn’t turned into an asshole until seeing her last night, doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Just checking in on my soon-to-be-nephew,” she says, focusing on Scott, who offers a strained smile in response. 

Stiles discreetly kicks him under their bench, watches Scott’s eyes go wide as he says, “Oh, yeah, uh, good to see you, Kate.” 

She laughs, squeezes his shoulder before looking at Stiles again. “Mmhmm, glad you’re making friends, Scott, especially such cute ones. Hopefully we’ll be up here long enough to get to know each other better, assuming this fire keeps growing.” She drops a wink at Stiles and finally walks away, hips swinging with her ponytail as she does; Stiles realizes the hair at his temples is damp with sweat.

“ _Ho_ ly god, what the fuck was that? She is kind of maybe _terrifying?_ Did she just insinuate she hopes the fire keeps burning?” 

Scott nods slowly, expression tense. “Yeah, she’s, uh, a bit of a black sheep in her family. I—you probably didn’t realize, but Allison Argent—my commander?—I mean, we’ve, uh, been dating on the down-low. One of us is supposed to transfer, but—our company understands, I mean, we’ve always been like family and nobody begrudges us that. It’s a bit of a secret, and I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself, but Kate being here could really throw us under the bus, you know?”

“Yeah, sure, Scott, you’re good with me,” Stiles answers without thinking, knowing it’s true. “What’d she mean by ‘advisor’?”

“As far as I know, she’s an investigator in some odd branch of law enforcement?” Scott offers, unsure. “Just, be careful around her, okay? She’s not someone to mess with.”

“I think I got that, believe it or not. She’s hella fucking scary and I don’t even know her.” 

“And, uh.” Scott falters for a moment, stares down at his food as he adds, “Don’t bring her up around Derek, okay?”

He nods, wonders if she knows the rest of Scott’s company, if she knows what went down a year ago that caused Hale to lose his shit; he remembers Hale charging out of the mess last night, almost wonders if _she_ went down and ended up on top, if she brought Hale down. He strikes the notion from his mind when they’re called back to work.

She sticks in his thoughts anyway.

He and Braeden end up at base camp the next afternoon, free for three hours before their next shift starts. Boyd decides to catch a bit of sleep but Braeden kicks Stiles’ boots until he gets up off the ground and trails after her.

“I can’t sit still,” she admits, shaking out her arms. “I’m too wound up from this bullshit even though my entire body hurts.”

“Know what you mean. I can’t stop thinking.” He cracks his neck, remembers Scott’s offer and proposes they find the lacrosse game. It’s easy to locate, friendly shouts and a smattering of applause from the small crowd lounging around between tents. Scott makes a pretty good play, passes to Isaac when Erica was clearly expecting it to go to the tall blond guy she’s guarding; Scott whoops when Isaac scores past the dude playing goalie.

Braeden waves when they’re at the sidelines and the game pauses as someone procures crosses for them; Stiles laughs when he realizes Danny Mahealani’s in goal, hangs back to chat and finds out he’s an on-duty EMT for the duration of the fire. “Yeah, Lydia, too, dude. She’s piloting,” he says, pointing upfield as Braeden catches the pass meant for Erica. “Watch out for Scott, by the way, he plays dirty.” 

“Lydia is up here?”

Danny’s eyes narrow. “She swore you were over her, dude, please don’t make her rip your balls off. I am _not_ going to incur her wrath by staunching the bleeding should that happen, okay?”

“No, no, Danny-boy, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve got a few ideas and she is the perfect sounding board, that’s all. She’ll tell me straight off if I’m being an idiot.”

“Most people will,” Danny says dryly. “Watch out for Hale’s pass.”

“Wha—?” Stiles blinks as someone crashes into his side, rolls over on the dry red dirt to see Hale pushing himself up from the ground, scowling. He breathes in harshly, chokes on the dust even as Hale extends a hand to pull him up. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, charging off again.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, rubbing his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed Hale on the field. “This dude is everywhere.”

Danny shrugs next to him, watches the ball move back down the field. “Derek’s a little rough but he’s a good guy. Good player, but I think he’s better at basketball.”

“Is he?” Stiles asks absently, stretching his arms out. “How well do you know him? Actually, how do you know him at all?” 

“The Hales lived up the road from Beacon Hills? One of his sisters went to highschool with us, EMT now?” Danny looks at him like his brains evaporated overnight from proximity to the fire, and Stiles scowls. 

“Obviously they’re from the area, then, all of them?”

“Duh,” Danny answers. “What’s wrong with you today?” 

“Lots. I’m heading up-field.” 

He takes off toward the cluster of players midfield, manages to steal the ball Braeden’s passing to Scott; the rush of the game catches up with him finally, distracts him even as Hale’s shoulder presses up against his own during a scuffle. The firefighters shed layers as they go, t-shirts emblazoned with HVFD stripped in favor of sweat-soaked tank-tops and dirt-stained athletic shorts; Stiles feels like dying in his loose fatigues. In the end, Braeden takes him out of the game, grinning victoriously as he retreats to the sidelines to rest and possibly maybe think about icing his ankle. 

She plops down to him a few minutes later, still smiling at the adrenaline of the game. “You good?”

“Apparently I suck, still.” She laughs at him, nudges him with her elbow and continues watching. “Nice takedown, though.”

“Bennett taught me,” she admits happily. “Comes in handy when the perp sees me and thinks he’s got an easy getaway.” 

“I wasn’t aware people thought that around you, like, ever.”

She shoves him over, laughs when he scowls at her. “At least I wasn’t the only one beating up on you. How many times did Hale knock you over?”

“He does seem to have it out for me, doesn’t he?” Stiles mutters, watching him continue on the field. 

Hale moves fast and sure, light and graceful on his feet. Stiles' face warms further as he watches Hale lunge around Erica, the play of muscles in his forearms, his wrists; he immediately thinks of Hale's hands on his dick, thinks about the rough calluses he must have from firefighting, the way he wants Hale to sink his teeth into Stiles' shoulder so hard he comes from it. He wants to retaliate by shoving Hale over on to his back when he least expects it, straddling his legs and tugging his uniform pants down to lick up his cock. It burns through him and he tears his gaze away, startled by the bright _want_ , the ease with which he imagines it.

Standing back, trying to ignore the simmering attraction to Hale, the entire game seems surreal. Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Hale never tire nor falter, spinning around each other almost before the others begin to move, as if they never lose track of each other. He sees the way Isaac rises from a hard fall without even flinching, how Erica’s eyes almost flash with every play stolen out from under her. He’s not sure how he made it out alive.

Braeden punches his shoulder to reclaim his attention, and even then his eyes continue to stray back to the game, brow slightly furrowed as he sits with his arms braced on his knees, hands dangling between. By the time they leave to change for their evening shift, Stiles practically itches to figure out how a friendly game meshed seamlessly with such wild undercurrents, something prickling along the edge of his mind that usually reserves itself for detective work. He forcefully focuses on that rather than the way he wants Hale, thankful for the distraction.

He walks past Kate Argent without even noticing.

“Hey, sweet cheeks, you miss me?”

Stiles startles, looks up at Heather’s grin as she and Danielle slide into place across from him. “No,” he lies easily.

“Our shifts finally align,” she sighs dramatically, “bringing us back together at last. I was losing it out there without your wit and brevity. And by that I mean the quiet was a nice break, you know?”

He kicks her under the table, ignores her laughter and turns back to his conversation with his plate; Boyd shakes his head. Danielle lifts her eyebrows as she unwraps her plastic utensils. “You know what I miss already? You two not being near each other.”

Stiles lifts his head to protest, ignoring Boyd’s laughter as Scott and Isaac fall in on either side of the table, talking quietly together. Isaac blinks when he realizes he doesn’t know his benchmates, offers handshakes and a smile. “Uh, hey, sorry, I’m Isaac Lahey.”

“Sroff Mitwfwll,” Scott says around his chicken. Stiles chokes on his own food at Danielle’s unimpressed expression and Scott’s resulting blush as he swallows forcefully. “I, sorry, I’m Scott, I mean. Scott McCall.” 

“Do we need to find a new table or can you swallow before you speak?” Isaac pointedly takes a bite of his own meal, expectantly keeping his gaze on his partner until Scott scowls and stabs at his food again. Stiles knocks his shoulder supportively, grinning around his broccoli.

Issac's still laughing when Erica forcibly pushes Hale down between Boyd and Stiles so that she can sit across from Boyd, her hair loose from its usual bun as she smiles and introduces herself to Heather and Danielle. Nobody seems to notice Stiles shutting up as soon as Hale’s side presses against his. He’s so grateful because, well, Derek Hale has _beautiful_ thighs, okay, and pressed up at him like this, Stiles can only think of maybe grinding up against one while pinned against a tree, and it’s awkward to have hate-boners at the dinner table, no matter how impolite the company is. 

“Good game today, right?” Scott asks, finally drawing Stiles back into the conversation. 

“Oh, yeah, definitely. You’ve got, like, lightning-like reflexes, man, it was nearly inhuman.” Stiles grins and bumps Scott’s fist, forcing himself to ignore Hale when he shifts restlessly against Stiles’ side. He still hasn’t said a word since he sat down. “You guys are awesome.”

Scott ducks his head, shrugs the compliment off. “Nah, we’re just used to playing with each other. Keeps our aggression in check.”

“Are you guys aggressive? Hadn’t noticed.” He snorts at Scott’s bashful grin, nudges him lightly. “By the end of the game you were all acting like overgrown puppies. I totally forgot how dangerous you were.” Stiles smiles, jolts when Hale’s cup of coffee spills across his lap. He falls back off the bench, swearing a wild streak as he hits the ground shoulders-first, mouth open with surprise. “ _Holy god,”_ he whines, “what the fuck was that for?”

Hale stares down at him, eyes wide, and Stiles stops breathing for a moment when he sees something like fear in the set of Hale’s shoulders, the worried lines around his mouth; his grip is firm when he pulls Stiles back up by his jacket. “Sorry, accident,” he mutters, reaching for napkins with his other hand. “Wasn’t paying attention to my hands.”

Erica and Isaac are watching Hale shrewdly now, though, and Stiles feels that wasn’t the entire truth; he lets it go when Hale ducks his head and hands him the napkins, carefully swinging off the bench to get more as he retrieves a coffee-refill. 

“You good?” Heather asks, eyebrows winging up in a way Stiles really doesn’t appreciate. 

“Fine,” he mutters, dabbing at his lap as he avoids her gaze.

“You sure, Stiles? Because you’re a bit pink, I have to say,” she continues. She holds her hands up in surrender when he glares at her, smirking a bit, and he rues the day his teenaged-self ever decided dating her would be a good idea; she knows him far too well and if anyone could recognize the signs of his attraction to someone, even a dickwad like Hale, it’s definitely her.

Scott butts in then, thankfully saving Stiles from the interrogation. “Yeah, man, that was a pretty hard fall. Is your back okay?” 

“Twinges a little,” Stiles answers, shrugging around it. “I’ll be fine.”

“Can I check just in case?” 

“Uh, if you want?” 

Scott obviously has the hands of god, because the moment he touches Stiles, urging him to spin sideways on the bench, whatever discomfort there had been disappears. “ _Dude,_ ” Stiles breathes, melting backwards toward him, “you are, like, _magic_.” 

Hale frowns at this, appearing next to Stiles and looking down at his spot, back to Scott, something disapproving in the divot between his eyebrows— _everything_ disapproving in his eyebrows, if Stiles is honest. “He okay?”

“Yeah, he’s great,” Stiles says, looking up with a smirk as he ignores Hale ignoring him. “Like I said, pure magic. I’ve been transformed under these hands.”

Hale stares for a moment, looks around the table again, and then sets the napkins down and picks up his plate before walking away without another word. 

Stiles stares after him, blinking. “What?”

Heather, Boyd, and Danielle fall forward over the table laughing, and the firefighters carry on as though none of them have worry lines by their eyes now. Stiles narrows his gaze after Hale’s back, vows to figure it out and abandons the thought as Scott’s hands hit a particularly tense knot between his shoulders. 

He sighs into it willingly, feels it loosen as he lets it all go.

"So you and Derek are cool now, right?" Scott asks, smiling as he claps Stiles on the back. "I'm glad, you know?”

“I—we’re cool?” Stiles asks.

Scott’s smile falters and drops, confusion evident in its wake. “Aren’t you? Why did Derek request to work with you tonight?”

Stiles feels his eyes go wide, mouth gaping. “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah, man, I was gonna ask if you wanted to pair up tonight, but Allison told me you’re working with Derek, so…” Scott shrugs, steps back a bit when Stiles’ hands flap in the air uselessly.

“Okay, yeah, no, nobody thought to tell me that,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he glances around for Hale; he’s fifty feet away, leaning against a tree trunk and staring just to the left of Scott and Stiles with his head cocked oddly. Stiles sighs. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, they want us paired off for this one as escorts up to the next camp. I think that girl Danielle is supposed to be my partner?”

“She’s cool, just don’t be an idiot and she won’t throw you out the passenger door,” Stiles says, distracted. Hale’s still standing strangely, stiffly, his attention obviously focused on something, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d swear Hale was eavesdropping despite the distance. 

Scott breaks away a few minutes later when Danielle shouts for him over the crowd, which is thinning as deputies and firefighters alike load up into the vehicles. Stiles huffs, biting at the corner of his pinky nail with his arms crossed until Hale finally walks over.

“C’mon, we’re part of the escort,” Stiles sighs, taking his hand away from his mouth. He leads the way over to the Tahoe, pulls himself up and turns the engine over as he starts up the computer systems out of habit. 

“Dispatch, this is Unit 24, 10-8.”

“10-4, Unit 24.”

“10-76 to Lower Camp.”

Stiles glances over to make sure Hale’s strapped in and eases out behind a Cal Fire pick-up. Five minutes in, he reaches over and turns on the radio at a low volume, resisting the urge to ask what in god’s name made Hale choose him willingly.

“How’d you know?” Hale finally asks.

Stiles startles, squawking sharply in the middle of his Journey solo. “What? How did I know what?” 

“About our company,” Hale says. He’s looking out the passenger window with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning. Stiles personally thinks the dude’s eyebrows could eat entire cliff faces.

“Uh,” Stiles says. 

“Did she tell you?” 

“I… who?”

Hale sighs harshly, glancing over at Stiles and shifting in his seat; he pulls at his seatbelt like it’s too tight. “Don’t play dumb now. I believed it at first, but you made it pretty clear you know what you’ve gotten into.”

Stiles mouths the words “gotten into” at the windshield, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Yeah, no, dude, the only thing I’m aware of being into right now is, like, escort services? I—not like the escort profession, I mean, but, police escort? You know, to lower ground to help set up a smaller camp there?” 

Hale literally growls, loud and low and guttural, and Stiles slams on the breaks, thankful he’s the last in line as his heart attempts to beat its way through his ribcage. “What the fu—” He’s suddenly half-pulled over the computer and armrest, Hale’s fist tight in his shirt, faces far too close for comfort. The pronounced ridge over Hale’s eyebrows—in place of?—steals the rest of his words and he wilts against him wordlessly. 

“Are you done fucking around?” Hale asks, carefully, precisely; the long _fangs_ in his mouth must make it difficult to talk clearly, Stiles thinks, dazed, even as he regains control of his body and tries to back away.

The fist in his shirt tightens and Stiles realizes he’s resting his hands on Hale’s wrist, not squeezing or pulling or pushing, just—stabilizing, maybe, and god does he need something stable right now. He forces himself to swallow, keeps his outstretched foot on the brake as his eyes carefully catalogue the changes in Hale’s face—the long canines, the red irises and intense sideburns, the sudden absence of his eyebrows. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles squeaks, and Hale finally lets go of him, roughly pushing Stiles back in his seat. 

“Drive, Stilinski,” he says, pointing down at the next car which is nearly around a bend in the road. 

Stiles takes his foot off the brake, stares straight ahead as his brain comes back online. “Oh my god, dude, what the fuck?” he finally asks. “What’d you put in my drink at dinner?”

“You made three references at dinner alone,” Hale says, incredulous, like _he_ has any reason to be, oh my god, Stiles thinks, one hand flying up toward the roof the the car. He barely feels it when he hits the rearview mirror.

“References to _what?_ ” he bursts out, looking sideways at his passenger. 

“Werewolves,” Derek snarls, face back to normal; Stiles doesn’t even want to know what _his_ face looks like right now.

“Werewolves. I— _werewolves? That's_ what you're going with, really?"

“You knew.”

“ _I_ —no, _ohhhh_ my god, no, I had no idea _werewolves_ were fucking _real!”_ Stiles yelps. “Why didn’t you tell me this when I wasn’t driving, I’m gonna drive us into a ravine and my dad’s gonna be so mad when I die and what did you hope to _accomplish_ with this? What is _wrong_ with you?”

Hale’s eyes widen, reflecting red for just a moment when the lights on a car ahead flash back at them. “You… really didn’t know.”

“ _No shit_ , you moron, I didn’t know until you tried to _eat me_ over the center _console!_ ”

“I wasn’t gonna eat you,” Hale mutters. Stiles thinks maybe he should start calling him _Derek_ again considering he knows now that Hale’s a freaking werewolf, holy god, because being on first name basis with his murderer could maybe help in the long run by, like, making Hale _not_ his murderer? What happened to the hot on-again, off-again asshole Stiles mostly wanted to suck off? 

He rubs at his forehead, pulls his hand down his face and groans. “I can’t even believe you. You said your whole company? Like, Scott and Isaac and Erica and _Allison_?”

“I—fuck,” Derek sighs, thumping his head back against the headrest. His profile stands out in the shadows, nose straight and proud, Adam’s apple obvious—Stiles’ heart speeds up again. He reaches out to roll down the window, reconsiders when the smoke outside filters in. “No, not Allison. She’s human.”

“Okay, and you thought I knew this for what reason now? I mean, I'm a good deputy, I know that, but even I couldn't figure out something this big in only two days. Why would I even _think_ to?” Stiles asks, forcibly calming himself down again. He remembers the way he was _sure_ during the game that Isaac’s wrist had broken until he got up and started playing as if nothing had happened, thinks of the firelight reflecting red off Derek’s eyes in the forest the other night—it hadn’t just been the flames, he realizes numbly. 

“I think the smoke’s getting to me.”

Stiles laughs, roughly, says, “Jesus fucking christ, that’s _everyone’s_ excuse now. _Kate Argent_ said it the other night at dinner.”

“What?” 

Derek’s voice slows, sharpens, breaths turning shallow, and Stiles glances over warily. “Are you gonna, like, wolf out again?”

“You said Kate Argent. When did she—?”

“She walked up to me and Scott the other night at dinner, warned us about the smoke as if our brains had difficulty processing the threat it posed? And then she kind of insinuated that she hoped the fire burned longer so we could ‘get to know each other’ and I pretty much almost fainted because the woman is _scary_.” 

“She talked about the fire.” Derek breathes in deep, holds it for a moment before he lets the air out, repeats it again before asking, “Did she say why she’s up here?”

“Uh, apparently she’s an advisor on the fire or something, I don’t know, but can we get back to the part of the conversation where you’re a _werewolf_ again? I think the information processor in my brain broke and needs a realignment.”

“In a minute,” Derek snaps. “Just—what kind of advisor?”

Stiles sighs, finally sees the turn off ahead. The most terrifying drive of his life ends soon, and so many questions push to the front of his tongue; he forces them back in favor of saying, “I don’t know, okay? Nobody really does, which, yeah, is fucking weird, I’ll admit it, _but not as weird as werewolves_.”

“Stiles, look—”

“Oh, so I’m Stiles instead of Stilinski now?” Derek doesn’t look amused, and Stiles relents, sighing. “What else do you want?”

Derek leans back in his seat again, turns his gaze back out to the night, and the flashing lights ahead illuminate the clench of his jaw, the confused fear in his eyes. “Just… don’t tell anyone, please,” he finally says, fingers curled into his palm where it rests on his thigh. “It’s not just me that would cause problems for. I’m sorry for startling you.”

“You realize I have a trillion different questions now, right?” Stiles asks, squinting to see the road.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one.”

Derek reluctantly sticks to his side as they help set up camp, silent, brow furrowed, glancing down whenever Stiles accidentally mutters something about _motherfucking werewolves, seriously_ under his breath. He finally huffs in frustration as they hold up a panel of the mess tent, shoving Stiles’ shoulder lightly with his knee. “Shut the fuck up, okay, you don’t know who’s listening.”

“Dude, pretty sure everyone’s trying to listen to that Finstock dude yelling orders about tent poles, because, I swear to God, there are so many unintended innuendoes pouring out of that mouth right now and the guy has no idea. Nobody gives a shit about what I say anyway, trust me.” 

His frown deepens but he seems to give in after looking around to see their nearest neighbors staring toward the center with wide eyes and lips pulled between teeth to muffle laughter. “Still,” he mutters, adjusting his grip; Stiles looks up at him from his spot securing the pole in the ground, tries not to let the backlit angle affect him. 

“Still what?” he asks, rebalancing in his crouch.

“You promised not to talk about it,” he points out. “I told you, it’s not just me asking. It’s my pack, and my family.”

“Your—your whole family? Wow. Dude.”

Derek closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the pole as if he wants to push it through his brain. Stiles recognizes it because it resembles his dad’s face all through high school _very_ closely, only then it had been the sharp edged papers of behavior reports and the nearest pen. “What happened to silent Stiles? Bring him back.” 

Stiles grins. “Sorry, buddy, you’re stuck with me now. I’m a cop. Questioning is in my very nature—not to mention a large portion of my training on reading tells and investigating and all that crap. Are your senses extra sharp while you’re in human form?”

After what looks like a slow count to three, Derek shrugs, looking down to meet Stiles’ eyes. “Is there any way I can get away from this without playing twenty questions first?”

“Nah, but feel free to ask your own if you want. No guarantee I’ll answer honestly though.” 

“We can hear lies, first of all,” Derek says, raising one of his impressive eyebrows. “So go ahead and lie if you want. I’ll know anyway.”

“What? No way. How?” Stiles demands, indignant; he can’t lie for shit on the spot sometimes, but _seriously_. The pole wobbles alarmingly in his hands and Derek huffs, tightens his grip to hold it straight so their neighbors don’t take an interest in them. 

“Heartbeat.” 

Stiles blinks, opens his mouth, blinks again and scowls. “Fuck, that’s just not fair. You can hear that well?” Derek shrugs, defeated regret heavy along his shoulders. Fucker should know better now than to spring shit like _werewolves_ upon ordinary citizens, especially while said ordinary citizens are _driving_. “What else is enhanced?”

“Most senses. We can dial it down and control it though. Usually we do, especially out here, but in small fires the hearing definitely helps if we can’t smell anything above the smoke. Helps us suss out arsons from accidents, too, figure out what caused the fire before we go in, what the danger level is. I—my sister likes to say we might as well use what we have to everyone’s advantage.” 

“Your sister Laura? She and my dad are buddies.”

“Yeah, she respects him a lot. No idea how you’re related,” Derek remarks absently, face blank, smirking when Stiles kicks him lightly. 

“Sometimes I think he wonders that too,” Stiles admits after a moment, looking away, hands sweating inside his gloves as he adjusts his grip. 

Finstock shouts at everyone to move as one then, distracting them, and Stiles drops the subject for the time being, focusing on digging his heels into the ground and pulling upright while Derek pushes, thighs burning as he holds his position while everything settles. He lets go once the all clear is given, plopping back on his ass carelessly and staring at the hand Derek automatically extends. 

He thinks about the claws that sprung from those fingertips so recently, thinks about the supernatural strength hidden in tendons and muscles, looks up to see Derek’s eyebrows twitch as if he knows every thought running through Stiles’ mind. He hadn’t really thought about it, about werewolves being a real, actual danger, about the built in predator beneath human skin, but he thinks about it now, just for a second, lets himself acknowledge it as he watches Derek’s aborted attempt at pulling his hand back.

Stiles reaches up anyway, clasps his forearm and lets Derek pull him up, squeezing once as Derek relaxes, light eyes surprised in the glare of the generator-run lights behind them. His mouth quirks up in the beginning of a real smile and Stiles grins back, reaching out to smack his shoulder; Derek shoves him three feet to the left in retaliation when they start walking, settling into their wordless understanding.

Boyd and Erica track them down a while later, carrying extra paper coffee cups and huddling together. Despite the lower elevation, the slight distance from the fire and an increase in wind-speeds lends a chill to the night, pressing everyone in close as worried mutters about the wind’s effect on the fire travel from group to group. Derek remains at Stiles’ side, frowning and watching the conversations around them, and Stiles keeps staring at Erica and then opening his mouth to ask a werewolf-related question before remembering how crazy his partner would think him. He generally challenges the limits of Boyd’s no-nonsense meter just by existing—bringing up werewolves just might break the damn thing.

Plus the way Derek keeps shuffling uneasily next to him is fucking his nerve-endings to hell and back, because he can _feel_ it now, that weird underlying energy that he gives off like any dangerous predator, even if Stiles thinks he might be mostly imagining it. He certainly ignores the possibility that standing next to Derek makes him anxious for any other reason, because that way lies the deeper end of madness. 

Tara finds them a little while later, looking worn-out and frustrated. “Stilinski, Boyd, you need to report in with the rest of the department. We’re sending a few deputies home tonight. Make sure your shit’s packed up in case you’re on the list.”

“Whoa, wait, Tara—” Stiles’ eyebrows arch up, mouth open to continue on, because they can’t _leave_ , not now, not until he’s got all his answers and this fire stops feeling weird and—

She levels him with a glare, snapping, “Deputy Stilinski, as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to report to briefing, _now_. The situation has changed and, if nothing else, you and your partner need to be aware of the circumstances.”

He clenches his jaw, staring at her as something cold radiates down his spine and out through his ribs. His fingernails dig into his palms sharply as he forces himself to breathe out, to follow when she turns sharply on her heel and stalks away; he allows himself a single glance over his shoulder to see Derek and Erica staring after them.

Most of the department has gathered under one of the lights furthest out from the center of camp, deputies shuffling nervously on their feet, thumbs hooked in duty belts or resting on the butts of their guns. Stiles and Boyd pause on the outskirts of the group, letting Tara move further toward the center as Heather, Braeden, and Bennett materialize around them. 

“Okay, folks, listen up!” Stiles cranes his neck to see his father a few feet away, feels relief run swift and heady through his veins as he confirms his health. The wrinkles on his forehead worry him slightly, but Stiles himself earned his father too many of those to think much of them. “The situation here has changed. They were able to get further in toward the center of the fire earlier this evening when the wind changed, and unfortunately three bodies were clearly visible below the tree line near the location we think the fire began.”

A wave of muttering rolls through the surrounding crowd, and Stiles blinks quickly, trying to process. “Illegal campfire gone out of control?” someone calls, and his dad shakes his head. 

“No, right now there’s no discernable cause, no signs of a campfire pit or anything. We could barely see anything from the chopper through the trees and the smoke, just the bodies, half submerged in a stream. They looked like they were all moving when they died, possibly before the fire got to them. All three had something sticking up from their backs. As soon as we can, we’re going to pull the bodies out and start autopsies to determine whether or not they were possibly connected to the cause of the fire.

“As such, they’re sending in Park Service and possibly the Bureau of Investigation to take on the case. These details are, of course, expected to remain contained, as the fire now stands as an open case until we discern whether or not arson or murder by arson could have been involved. I’m sending a few of you home to take the next few days off, switch places with deputies back in Beacon County.”

Stiles stops listening when his dad starts calling out the deputies who are going home; he knows he and Boyd will be staying, knows his dad knows trying to send Stiles home would only end up with him suspended from the force for ignoring orders again. By all accounts, having both Stilinskis on the same force, each stubborn and immovable when it comes to protecting the other, makes for many an awkward situation, but at least they know each other’s boundaries. 

His dad meets his eyes a few minutes later, visibly sighs and walks up to him; the hand on Stiles’ should is warm and solid, grip firm in a somewhat-apologetic offering, and Stiles half-grins at him before it slides off his face. “Hey, Dad.”

“Son.” The Sheriff shrugs his shoulders, rolls his neck back and forth as he rests his knuckles on his hips, head tipped back. “What do you think?”

“No idea yet, probably won’t be anything until they pull those bodies out,” Stiles says immediately. “Could be arson, murder, a drug ring—who knows? Maybe an accident, maybe not. How the hell did you even see _anything_ from the helicopter?”

“Good pilot,” his dad says, squinting back toward camp. “Looked like your friend Lydia. You off-shift for a few hours now? I can’t keep track anymore.”

Stiles rubs his hand over his eyebrow, sighs and falls into step next to his dad after waving Boyd and the others off. “Yeah, think I’m gonna turn in for the night. Lots of shit going on in my head, you know?” Like, maybe, fire and werewolves and dead bodies, oh my.

“Don’t I ever.” His dad looks at him, eyes tired and worried, brings his arm up around Stiles’ shoulders in a sideways hug. “Get some sleep, kid.”

“You too, Dad. You can’t figure this thing out without your rest,” Stiles says as they pull away from each other. “You know how you old folks get without frequent naps.”

The smack to the back of his head is worth it as Stiles’ dad huffs with unwilling laughter, eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that makes Stiles think this might all bowl over.

That, of course, is when he sees Kate Argent staring at them from across the camp, and by the time his dad’s turned away, Stiles finds his brief hope doused all too easily by the endless list of questions and patterns and connections and coincidences taking shape in his mind.

“So what’s up with Allison’s aunt, besides her scarily long fingernails and sharp teeth?” Stiles asks, swinging onto a bench next to Scott, who startles and dribbles oatmeal all down his front.

“What?” he asks, wide-eyed as he takes the napkin Stiles offers up.

“Her aunt? Kate? What’s her deal?” Stiles repeats, stealing a piece of toast off the plate in the center of the table. No one else from their group has wandered into the mess hall yet, thankfully, and Stiles plans to take full advantage of their solitude. “Like, does anyone know why she’s up here?”

Scott shakes his head, shrugs, swallows, fidgets—Stiles pins him with a raised eyebrow, chewing calmly, and watches as he collapses in on himself. “I don’t know, man, why are you asking? _What_ are you asking, anyway?”

“Just curious. Y’know, she’s hot,” Stiles says, watching Scott closely.

“No!” Scott seems to realize immediately that Stiles was after precisely that reaction, hurriedly corrects himself. “I mean, uh, she’s totally not hot, dude, she’s, like, _old_.”

“Like old blood? Or, like, is she legit old but only looks young, like immortal and shit? Is she a werewolf? That would definitely explain the heebie-jeebies I get around her, even though I never have them around you guys. Are werewolves immortal?” Stiles presses, watching Scott’s head shakes get more frantic until he leaves off, gaping. 

“What? Kate Argent? _No_ , she’s a _hunter_ ,” Scott yelps. “I— _shit_. How did you know, about us?” For the first time, Stiles draws back, realizing slowly that the subverbal rumbling in his ears is actually Scott growling at him, his nails lengthening to gouge into the plastic tabletop. Questioning a werewolf before breakfast probably wasn’t Stiles’ smartest idea.

“Whoa, whoa, buddy, calm down! Claws away, man, seriously, you’re in public. _Chill_ ,” Stiles hisses, reaching out stupidly to cover Scott’s hand with his own. “I found out last night from Derek.” 

Scott blinks, his features smoothing out as the hint of gold in his brown eyes fades. “Oh,” he says. “You really freaked me out, Stiles.”

“You think?” Stiles says, pulling his hand back and reaching out for his own fork instead, willfully ignoring the way it shakes. “I didn’t know how much you’d tell me if I asked direct questions. Sorry, dude.” 

“Direct questions about Kate Argent or about werewolves?”

“About Kate Argent _and_ werewolves, actually, though not specifically together before you just told me that. I don’t trust her. Every time I’m around her I can feel the hair on my arms stand up. It’s not normal.”

“She’s a werewolf hunter, Stiles. You wouldn’t be in any danger. Don’t worry about her.”

“Should I not worry about you guys, then?” Stiles demands, glowering down at his plate. “Because, I gotta tell you man, hearing that just now? Totally even more suspicious of her than I already was, which, like, makes me all the more certain that she’s pinging my radar for a reason.” 

“Dude, don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you.” Scott scowls, refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes, and Stiles feels his mouth tightening.

“Just so you know, Scott, telling me _no_ or _don’t_ usually only makes me do it more,” he snaps, getting up to stride away. Derek, on his way in, meets his eyes as he tosses the rest of his plate in the trash and a flush rises up Stiles’ neck; he turns away and storms out.

Allison tracks him down twenty minutes later, letting him finish the set of push-ups he’s on before she sits down next to him silently, waiting for him to start talking. He sighs, sits up next to her and runs his hands through his hair, tugging on a handful. “Well, that conversation went well,” he finally says, falsely perky as he slaps his thighs and grins. 

“Look, Stiles, we barely know you. Our company—our _pack_ is a private group, for understandable reasons, obviously. We’re not used to sharing, not used to other people knowing about us and especially _worrying_ about us. Scott didn’t mean to drive you off, but in a way he did, for both your protection and our own,” she says, earnest. 

He thinks, in this moment, that she’s got the biggest eyes of anyone he’s ever met before. 

“How is it that your aunt is a werewolf hunter and _you’re_ the Captain of a company of werewolf firefighters?” Stiles asks. “Why are _you_ pack?”

She smiles a bit, looks out across the camp, arms looped loosely around her knees. The pre-dawn light shadows her features, the defined jawline and bony wrists, and Stiles thinks about the way her eyes might flash in the glare of the headlights a few yards to their left if she were a werewolf. Thinks maybe he needs a moment to understand how another human got involved, how she fits, how _he_ could ever fit. 

He presses his lips together firmly, waits as she starts to talk in a low voice.

“Scott and I met when he was a trainee at the station, about five years ago now. He and the others were all assigned to our station, all with something to prove, all with something burning under their skins that made them want to run headfirst into fire. For Scott, that was protecting others, helping, making his mom proud. For the Hales, it was different. From the moment I met Derek, I knew there was something strange about him. He was there when I started as a trainee myself, a few years older, a whole lot more mysterious, but generally a good guy to everyone but myself. I learned later why, of course, because hunting runs in my family’s blood the same way the wolf runs in the Hales’.

“It was all fine despite Derek never saying a word to me, until last year—there was an accident,” she says, taking a deep breath and looking down for the first time since she started, steeling herself. “It was bad. There was a house fire, two kids trapped upstairs, and we got sent in. Derek was the only one who realized something was wrong, how far things had already progressed, but it was too late by the time they all caught up. Erica, Isaac, and Scott were all trapped under the rubble and the fire when the house started collapsing, all of them severely injured, all of them helpless. None of the other engines were there yet, and Derek and I were the only ones safe, both of us screaming after them, frantic. I’ve never been so afraid of something in my life,” she admits, squeezing her knees tighter. 

Stiles stares, pulse racing. “But… what happened?” he asks, seeing it all-too-clearly. He remembers a news report last year now, something about a collapsing home; two children had died, but there hadn’t been any stories of the firefighters trapped inside.

Allison smiles, something small and hesitant as she looks up at him again. “Derek happened. He shifted right in front of me to save them, stared me down with red eyes like he was daring me to turn my back on my team simply because he sacrificed his secret for their lives. We were able to pull them out, but they were so badly hurt and we couldn’t wait for the ambulance and Scott was—Scott was _dying,_ okay, bleeding all over me and burned and screaming and I just—I told Derek to do whatever had to do to save them, begged him, because I couldn’t lose Scott, I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t even care that it wasn’t my choice to make.”

Allison pauses, swallows down the lump in her throat, but her eyes burn, strong and fierce, not a spark of regret in them. Stiles nods, says, “If it were my dad, I would have done the same thing.” 

She offers him a small smile. “Long story short, he bit them, and Laura grounded us once she realized, claimed it was because we lost the house and handled the situation badly, too rashly—mostly she did it because three of us were now newly-bitten werewolves with too much strength and sensitivity to handle any fires close-up. It made us closer than any other crew, better, _more_ , and we haven’t let anyone too close since then. I wasn’t sure they remembered how. I’m glad I was wrong.”

Privately, still stinging from Scott turning him away, Stiles wonders if that’s true, chides himself when he remembers the way Erica fell asleep on Boyd’s shoulder, Isaac’s shy smiles—even Derek’s open-eyed amazement when Stiles took his hand last night, something like hope. “Me too,” he says instead, voice low as he looks away from her. 

She jostles her shoulder against his, smiles more cheerfully and stands before helping him up. “Good, because you’ve been assigned to our company temporarily. You’re spending the next rotation off with us at Derek’s.”

Stiles grins, throws an arm around her shoulder. “Well now, Captain Argent, let me tell you just how exciting that concept is for me.”

As it turns out, the Tahoe just barely seats everyone, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd all squished together in the middle row, Scott and Allison in the very back, Derek glowering at Stiles’ side in the passenger seat while the rest sleep on the drive down. The last two days have been busy, frantic almost, as the fire jumped another ridge and started eating down into Yosemite. Some of the crews at their camp left to help at the southern border, leaving them with less free time and more territory to cover, even if they were starting to push back on this edge. In between all the activity, Stiles hadn’t seen Derek since that brief moment at breakfast yesterday, and sitting next to him as he drove kept causing his fingers to tap out a nervous beat on the steering wheel.

“Would you stop?” Derek finally snaps, nearly an hour into the drive, voice low. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says immediately, silently cursing himself for apologizing, for being nervous at all. “ADHD and all.” 

“Just… turn on the radio if you’re going to continue,” Derek sighs, slouching further in his seat. His biceps look huge when Stiles glances sideways at him, arms folded across his chest in a way that pulls his blue t-shirt tight. Stiles forces himself to look at the road again, reaches out a moment later to turn on the stereo and turns it down again when Derek says, “You know you’re spending the next two nights trapped in a house with a bunch of werewolves who could tear you apart in a moment.” 

It’s not a question, not a reminder, but Stiles says, “Yeah, I know,” anyway, glances in the rear-view mirror to see everyone else slumped over and sleeping against each other. “Kind of hard to forget.”

“We won’t.” 

Stiles glances over at Derek again, eyebrows furrowed. “Won’t forget? What?”

“Won’t tear you apart,” Derek clarifies, staring at him. “Unless you become a threat.”

“A threat to the pack? In case it slipped your notice, big guy, I’m human. I might legally carry a firearm, but somehow I don’t think that would hinder you much, let alone prove a _threat_. Why are you telling me about this?”

Derek never looks away, eyes sharp under the streetlights flashing overhead as Stiles gets to the edge of town. “I want you to know that pack protects each other. I want you to understand exactly what it is you’re doing here, with us, what you’re getting yourself into. Humans can be dangerous—ask any of Allison’s extended family. _Knowledge_ is dangerous, and _you_ —you _know_ , now. You’re a threat simply for that, but you’re also… under threat from others who know, just because you do.” He frowns, huffs out a frustrated breath as he recrosses his arms, finally tearing his gaze away. “I’m not explaining this correctly.”

Stiles bites at the corner of his bottom lip, narrows his eyes as they pull up under a stoplight and he mulls through the bumbling explanation. “Are you trying to say that you won’t hesitate to gut me should I betray you, but if I stand up as your, uh, ally or whatever, you’ll protect me should the need arise?”

“That’s how pack works,” Derek says, softly, like it’s something he’s heard his whole life, something passed down through his family like the center of faith itself. 

Stiles wants to say he’s not pack, opens his mouth to do so before his eyes catch on Scott’s in the backseat; he must have woken up while they talked, even with their voices as low as they were, and he’s completely at ease, grinning at Stiles before yawning widely, settling back in against Allison. Stiles closes his mouth, swallows before he says, “Like family, then.”

“In a way,” Derek offers, shrugging uncomfortably, shoulders tight. “Yeah.”

He resettles himself in the driver’s seat, presses his foot to the gas when the light changes and thinks about the other deputies in the department, how they might argue internally but always present a united front against the public or the press or any catastrophe. He thinks he could do that with this group, thinks he could stand at their sides and face down any threats that might make themselves known. Maybe the unknown ones too, maybe those most of all. 

“Okay,” he says a while later, nodding decisively. 

“Okay?”

“You can show me,” Stiles continues. “Let me show you, too, when I can.” Derek blinks at him, eyes vulnerable and searching for just a moment before they flare red, brief and bright; Stiles grins. “Okay?”

His fingers tighten on the wheel as he waits, eyes trained on the road ahead; they’re past town now, out between Beacon Hills and Hill Valley, in an area where deer cross all the time, and he’d like to live through this conversation, even if his heart’s trying to kill him as it beats staccato against his ribs.

“Okay,” he hears; he breathes in, deep, slow, hears Derek do the same as he starts to smile.

“Okay,” he repeats.

As it turns out, Derek lives out near the Preserve, halfway between Hill Valley and Beacon Hills. Derek instructs him to pull off the road about fifteen minutes past the edge of town, warns him to drive slowly along the gravel track winding through the trees until they emerge in the clearing around Derek’s house.

Stiles cracks his neck as soon as he gets out of the car, stretches his arms up over his head as he yawns widely. Derek’s turned around in the front seat to shake Isaac’s knee, murmuring under his breath, and Stiles takes the opportunity to look around at what he can see between the vague shapes in the darkness, itching to either move or fall asleep standing after the ninety minute drive, the buzz of their conversation finally evening out in his veins.

“Stiles, get your bag,” Derek instructs, already on his way up the porch stairs, keys in hand. The rest of the group sleepily grabs their things, trudges up the steps after him, all muttering about how awesome sleeping in real beds and on real couches sounds. Stiles definitely agrees, shutting the door behind him and taking a moment to lean back against it, jaw cracking in the wake of another yawn. 

He finds the rest of them in the living room, stretching out as they designate beds—Boyd and Erica in one of the bedrooms, Allison and Scott in Laura’s, and Isaac in what is, apparently, his own room. Stiles sits on the couch, bounces a bit, and nods, satisfied with the soft leather. “I’m good out here,” he says, answering Erica’s question. She smiles sleepily, musses his hair, and trudges up the stairs, leading Boyd and calling a soft good night behind them. 

Derek reappears with blankets and a pillow in hand, wordlessly hands them to Stiles before walking down the hallway; Stiles sinks down in the cushions after a moment, thinks about lying flat and never quite makes it.

When he wakes up in the early morning, he vaguely recalls Derek crouching next to him at the side of the couch, hands warm as they coax him into lying down before tossing the blanket over him, a glass of water sitting on the table within arm’s reach. He smiles, rolling over to go back to sleep, warm and comfortable for the first time in a week.

Stiles follows the smell of bacon and eggs and the murmurs filtering down the hall from the kitchen, finds a few of the others already up when he peers around the doorframe. Allison passes him coffee as he walks in, scratching at his stomach and leaning against the counter next to her gratefully. She smiles, easy, relaxed, her shoulder firm against his and Scott quietly snuffling her neck on her other side.

Derek stands at the stovetop, sweats draped low over his ass, t-shirt loose and worn thin; Stiles drinks his coffee slowly, staring at the messy hair, the half-lidded eyes, losing the very-short battle of wills to the part of him that simply can’t front in the mornings, feet bare on the cool tile of Derek’s kitchen floor, sleepy attraction more similar to affection than he’d ever admit.

It feels good here, he realizes, natural in a way staying over with other people generally doesn’t. This could be any morning, every morning, and Stiles wants it. He likes Allison slouching against him, likes Derek’s soft edges, the way everyone fits together easily. He likes that _he_ fits here, thinks he’d fit nicely against Derek’s back, arms wrapped around his waist and forehead resting between his shoulder blades.

He swallows, shuffles on his feet; for all his imaginings of Derek, none of them were so chaste, so close. At most he dreamed of bracing his hands on Derek’s thighs as he swallowed his dick down, thought absently about the claws Derek could have slashed against his throat that first night they were teamed up together. Nothing in their interactions prepared him for the warmth he feels now, the flustered beginnings of a crush born from more than simple lust or frustration or fear, and he thinks back to their muted conversation last night, to what it could mean.

Derek glances up at him, one eyebrow arched in a wordless question, and Stiles simply meets his eyes, stomach tight and heart pounding. “‘Morning,” he offers quietly, mouth twitching in the saddest excuse for a smile he’s ever given. He’s not surprised when Derek simply shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he flips the bacon over; he _is_ surprised when Derek says, “Grab the bread from the cupboard above your head and start the toast, will you?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, blinking for a moment before he processes. He sets his coffee on the counter behind him as he turns, reaches up and feels his shirt ride up—he’s still wearing his uniform t-shirt, stained and wrinkled and disgusting. He remembers how long ago he last showered, silently apologizes to Allison and every werewolf around as he pulls the bread down and heads over to the toaster. “Hey, Derek, mind if I steal a shower later?” 

“Erica called it next, but you’re welcome to it after her, assuming she leaves hot water. I had to get a larger water tank installed because she uses it all,” he mutters, glaring up at the ceiling as if Erica’s winging her eyebrows up at him, lips pursed in a satisfied smile—Stiles thinks he’s probably right. 

“Awesome. Toast duty it is, then. I can totally toast things. Toasters are things I can do.”

“Are toasters a thing you can do silently?” Derek mutters.

“Is judging something you can do with your eyebrows alone?” Stiles retorts, flushing because he knows morning comebacks are not his specialty. Boyd’s disapproving eye-roll as he walks in seconds this.

Breakfast, as he expects, starts quietly and ends loudly as Isaac and Scott squabble over the last of the fruit salad Erica pulled out of the fridge. Trapped between them, Stiles merely continues stealing extra pieces of bacon from their plates while he can, grinning at Derek when he sighs, eyes pleading with the ceiling again.

It’s the first honestly quiet moment since the fire started, especially so since everyone reported for duty, and Stiles revels in it, silent and content to watch, to listen as Erica snarks under her breath at Isaac and Scott, as Allison rests her chin on her palm with a smile. They _feel_ like family, for all he barely knows them, feel like the easy extension he experienced with the Sheriff’s Department as a kid after his mom died, when the other deputies swapped off taking him on ride-alongs, when he and his dad kept so close to each other for fear of the other disappearing. He swallows his orange juice, slumps down in his seat and lets his feet slide under the table until they nudge against someone else’s.

Derek glances down, looks up right at Stiles and traps one of Stiles’ ankles between his calves almost tentatively. Stiles feels something inside him swoop into place, grins and settles more easily in his chair. 

If nothing else, he’s thankful the fire at least gave him this.

Stiles steals Derek’s laptop while his load of laundry cycles through, settling in one corner of the couch, feet trapped under Erica’s thigh where she slouches watching Lost Girl on Netflix. He pays attention to some of it, laughs and pinches her with his toes whenever she looks too pleased with developments onscreen. In between, he checks his email and accesses the reports from the Sheriff’s Department’s unsolved cases file, trying to piece the mysteries together with new knowledge of the world. Scott answers whenever he asks a question, lying on the floor with Allison as they go over the wedding planning binder he pulled off of Derek’s bookshelves.

“Omega?” Stiles asks, interrupting an explanation. 

“Werewolf without a pack,” Scott says absently, shaking his head at the color Allison holds up; she grimaces in agreement and pulls another swatch out. “Sometimes they cause problems. Left alone for too long, it gets harder to manage humanity as well as the wolf instincts, especially without an anchor. Sometimes a group of them will travel together, but they rarely form a true pack like the Hales or this one.” 

Stiles mulls it over, humming thoughtfully. He's already asked about the Hale pack, which consists mostly of Derek's family, of which Laura is Alpha. When he asked how Derek became Alpha of his own pack, whether it was genetic or something, Scott had firmly told him it wasn't his story to tell. 

"So are Omegas more feral or something?" 

"Yeah, sometimes." Scott's eyebrows furrow in confusion as he looks at two nearly identical swatches; Allison laughs and leans over to kiss him, still smiling.

"Omegas with an anchor are a little different," she explains, tossing one of the swatches in the 'no' pile. "Anchors are people or emotions or just, uh, anything, I guess, as long as they keep a werewolf centered and attached to their humanity, their sanity and compassion and understanding."

"Allison is my anchor," Scott admits, smiling goofily at her. 

"Okay, even _I_ could have guessed that." Stiles shakes his head, a little fond, a lot amused. 

"They're disgustingly predictable." Stiles looks over his shoulder to see a brunette woman he doesn't know standing in the doorway to the living room, a heavy navy duffle slung over her shoulder, EMT uniform crumpled; the smell of smoke wafts into the room with her and he thinks he vaguely recognizes her. "Who's the kid?"

"Stiles," he answers, tilting his head further back over the arm of the couch to look at her upside down. "And I'm twenty-four, by the way."

"Don't care," she says, dropping her bag on the floor. "Where's my brother?"

"Laundry room," Erica answers, eyes still glued to the tv. "Hi, Cora." 

She disappears around a corner in search of Derek as Stiles says, "Hey, she's Boyd's EMT friend. I probably should have remembered she was a Hale. Why are they everywhere?"

Erica cackles at him as Boyd and Isaac slam the door in the kitchen, calling out hellos as the grocery bags crinkle in their arms. Stiles rolls his eyes at her and gets up to help, passing Isaac all the refrigerated items as Boyd unbags everything. It feels simple and easy, even when Derek and Cora wander in halfway through, bickering quietly. Stiles has never seen so much attitude in one room before, even around Lydia—the amount of eyebrow-sass alone is, frankly, frightening.

Derek blows air through his mouth dramatically, rolling his eyes and meeting Stiles' gaze while Cora mirrors him in the background as she greets Boyd. Stiles swallows, hand raising to offer a wave or something before he catches himself and continues handing the turnips to Isaac; Derek snorts.

"Are those my sweats?" he asks, reaching under Isaac's outstretched arm to snag an apple from a shelf.

"Erica," Stiles says, shrugging even as heat flares down his spine, tingles in his fingertips. "Do you mind?"

Derek's eyes flick up at him when he takes a bite from his apple, unbothered, a little warm, and Stiles forces himself to breathe, realizes how stiffly he's holding himself as he relaxes. He hadn't protested when Erica handed them over with his towel for his shower, had only stared at them for a moment before he stepped into them, because they're Derek's and he can admit now that might be a thing for him— _Derek_ might be a thing for him. 

He wonders if the 'wolves picked up on that with their extra senses, both dreads it and hopes they might have.

Cora pushes past him to pull a glass down out of a cabinet, muttering under her breath as Derek says, “No, you’re welcome to anything you need here. Like my laptop, for instance.” Stiles grins, shrugging as he accepts a granola bar from Boyd. 

“Research, man. I told you I’d have a trillion questions and maybe only a hundred or so of those now have answers to them. Scott’s wallowing around on the living floor with swatches for the wedding right now, so I’m not sure I trust most of his answers. Can you explain the Alpha thing to me?” 

As soon as he says it, all three of the ‘wolves in the room go tense. Isaac hunches in on himself, Cora turning to stare at him with scary demanding eyes, a little frightened, and Derek’s jaw firms up, his breath punched out of him. Stiles immediately starts backtracking. “Whoa, hey, I didn’t mean it like an attack or anything. Sorry, I get distracted and caught up in lines of questions, don’t think before I talk sometimes. Uh, no pressure to answer at all.”

“What do you know of Alphas?” Cora asks, and her voice is gravelly, rough; she steps towards him slowly, purposefully, eyes locked on his, and he forces himself to stand his ground and lean back on the counter casually, aware all the while of Boyd’s frown at his side. 

“Not much at all,” he says calmly, trying to make himself seem unthreatening. Good cop, bad cop only works so well when he plays both parts. 

Derek intervenes before Cora gets too close, steps between them and places a hand on her shoulder, back to Stiles. He breathes in short and sharp at the firm muscles of Derek’s back, the heat of him a line down his front. 

“He’s in on a probationary status,” Derek murmurs. Stiles sees Cora’s glare intensify, her violent headshake before Derek’s grip tightens on her shoulder; he wants to reach out and touch Derek’s shoulder too, brief and light, and his fingers brush Derek’s lower back instead, the movement only half-aborted. He yanks his hand back, curls his fingers in like he’s touched a live wire, but Derek seems to relax, posture loosening. He looks back at Stiles, eyes surprised but pleased, and Stiles finds his own gaze falling to the floor, his cheeks burning.

“Oh my god, Derek, _really?_ ” Cora bursts out, hands flailing up. “ _Him?_ Who the fuck _is_ he even to know this already? He’s _human_.”

Boyd’s eyebrows wing up at his side and Stiles immediately reaches out to clasp his bicep. “Heeeey, buddy, why don’t we go back to the living room and just—”

“Are you _not_ human?” Boyd asks, bullshit meter running high. He looks like he did when they caught that kid spray painting the middle school gym last year, and Stiles fights back an extremely inappropriate laugh. 

Derek glares at Cora. 

"Of course we are, Boyd," she snaps, a moment too late.

"We? Who else?" Boyd looks at Derek, who sighs and falls back against the counter next to Stiles, rubbing his face. His shoulder is warm and solid, the back of his knuckles brushing Stiles' when he drops his hands to his sides. 

"Stiles?" 

He shrugs guiltily at Boyd, a strained smile breaking across his face. "Human as ever, dude." Boyd’s expression becomes even more unimpressed when Stiles gives him a thumbs up.

"Oh, all of you shut up," Erica moans, coming in from the living room with a glare to rival Medusa's. She flips her hair over her shoulder, says, "You told Stiles so it's only fair that we tell Boyd. We're werewolves, surprise, hooray, whatever." 

Boyd looks between Derek and Cora, glances at Isaac frozen by the doorway to the kitchen where he’d been on his way out, settles on Erica reaching up into a cabinet for a glass. “Show me, or I’m going to have to check you into the psych ward eventually.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Erica says easily, filling her glass at the tap. “You like us too much.” She grins even as her eyes spark gold, and Stiles stares along with Boyd. It’s the first time he’s seen any of the others actually changing past the claws Scott flashed the other morning. Her sideburns throw him for a complete loop and Stiles reaches out to touch them before he thinks better of it, startles when she laughs and sprays her sip of water at him in surprise.

“Oh my god, Stiles, you _would_ try to touch.” She laughs, breathless, wiping at her chin, and the change disappears as quickly as it came over her. Erica smiles, teeth blunt and straight and human, eyes brown and soft as they get, and Boyd shakes his head slowly, leaning on the counter.

“Damn,” he says. “I feel like I should owe someone money.”

“You owe me money,” Stiles says immediately, widening his eyes earnestly.

“Now _that_ is bullshit.” Boyd points at him and Stiles shrugs again, falls back to rest against Derek’s side. “And Cora’s bullshitting skills are _also_ bullshit.” 

She snaps her teeth at them all sarcastically and Derek throws his hands up in exasperation when Stiles comments, “You Hales really jump the gun on sharing secrets, don’t you?”

“Not usually,” Derek mutters, glancing sideways at him, eyes grudgingly amused. “Just sometimes, with the stubborn ones.” 

Stiles smiles, nudges his elbow into Derek’s side before settling in. Scott and Allison finally traipse into the kitchen, drawn by the bickering, and as cooking activity picks up, he never moves from his spot beside Derek, never breaks the contact between them. 

After dinner, Stiles just wants to sleep again. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor in the living room, leaning back against the arm of the couch while Scott and Isaac tussle over his head, Allison laughing from her spot perched on the back of the seat. Derek keeps snapping at them to stop screwing off from his place across the room, but everyone knows he doesn’t mean it; Cora keeps him preoccupied, drawing him into a muttered argument over something stupid. 

Isaac shouts triumphantly when he manages to press Scott’s face between the seat cushions by sitting on his head, grinning a bit maniacally. “Ha, I win. That means we’re going out.”

“What?” Stiles tunes back in, blinking back sleep. “What’re you talking about?”

“Isaac, no.” Cora glares, breaking off from her mock-fight with her brother. “We can’t go out tonight. Everyone’s still exhausted and you all have to leave at four tomorrow morning to report back. It’s not a good idea.”

“It’s only seven,” Isaac argues. “If we head out now, we can be back here at eleven, sleep for a few hours, and leave on time in the morning. One of the pack can drive. It’s not gonna be a problem. We need something to take our minds off work!”

Derek’s mouth slants sideways as Stiles finally catches on, but Allison shrugs agreement and Scott shoves Isaac off enough to say, “Well, I mean, he _did_ win,” even as Erica bounds up from the loveseat eagerly.

Isaac ushers everyone up, ignoring Cora’s continuing protests, and Stiles slowly stands, stretching his arms above his head with a wide yawn. When he opens his eyes, Derek’s gaze snaps back up to his face and he can’t help but grin. “What am I supposed to wear, Isaac? Sweats?” 

“You can borrow my jeans and a shirt from Derek, or we can stop at your place on the way into town,” Isaac calls back from the top of the stairs, disappearing around the corner. His own clothes sound great, but before he can jump on board Derek touches the back of his arm, jerks his head to indicate Stiles should follow him.

He swallows as they head up the stairs and turn right, toward Derek’s room. He trails Derek apprehensively. As soon as he sees Derek’s room, even just briefly enough to grab a shirt, Stiles’ll have all the knowledge he needs to build a complete fantasy where he takes Derek apart piece by piece on his bed, as if he can’t already.

Derek’s room reminds him of his own at first glance, gray paint and dark bedspread, but the walls are mostly blank, the space wide open and barely furnished. His eyes catch on the purple and dark gray of his pillows, stick even as Derek disappears into the closet for a moment. He wants to press Derek back against his own bed, wants to lift his shirt off and stare at the way the sheets bunch under his skin, wants to wake up and see Derek sprawled across the bed next to him, sheets draped over his lower back. 

He catches Derek’s eyes when he sticks his head out of the closet, a button-up in hand, and Derek pauses, stares back at him. Stiles just _wants_. 

“What?” Derek asks, glancing back at his bed. 

“I—nothing.” Stiles shakes his head, shrugs it off as best he can. 

“Stiles.” Derek steps toward him, careful and slow, eyes back on his. Stiles burns inside.

He swallows again, runs a hand over his hair and grins. “Seriously, Derek, it’s nothing.”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Derek reminds him, stepping closer still. His eyes dart between Stiles’, close as he is, and Stiles hates that even he notices his breathing speed up. “You have to trust us if you’re going to be part of this pack. You have to trust me. Do you?”

Stiles nods, slowly. Even though he barely _knows_ Derek, it’s the truth. Derek breathes in, slow and deep, eyes closing—Stiles looks at the way his eyelashes quiver, looks at the lines at the edges of his mouth and wants to run his lips over them, wants to tuck his face against Derek’s neck and breathe hot and close against him. 

“And to think I just wanted a shirt,” he says, forcing a laugh as he reaches out to take the shirt hanging from Derek’s hand. 

Derek steps back and still doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles. “To think,” he repeats softly. 

Stiles flees.

Isaac, Erica, and Scott cajole Cora into a drinking contest at their second stop of the night, Allison and Boyd taking bets on the side. Stiles makes sure to tell Boyd about the expedited healing factor before he loses exceptionally despite all the times Boyd has won bets against _him_. Instead of joining in, he ends up sitting with Derek at the bartop table, sipping beers and people watching in relative silence.

Before last night, Stiles isn’t sure he’d have ever imagined sitting in a bar with Derek, pressed close by the limited space, leaning into each other to hear. Now, though, it feels natural, like it couldn’t have ended any other way. Allison catches his eye when she goes to pick up a third round. She grins, nods her head at Derek and gives him a thumbs up—he flushes bright and thanks the excuse of his beer. 

Scott bails out of the drinking game first, laughing and stumbling just a little. He settles in at Stiles’ side, jostling him on his stool; Derek reaches out to steady him and glares at Scott. “Hey! Hey, Stiles, aren’t you glad we came out tonight? Isaac’s idea was really smart!” Scott smiles widely, slapping a hand on the table. 

“Yeah, man, great idea,” Stiles shouts over the music playing overhead. Derek’s hand slides down his arm to cup the back of his elbow and he presses back into it, just a bit. 

Scott never notices, chatting happily as Stiles and Derek make their way through beers four and five. Cora forces Derek to take a few shots in rapid succession as the night progresses, and Erica winds up pressing Boyd against the bar, easy and confident. Stiles catcalls from the table with Allison, laughing and generally enjoying the night, the ease with which everyone interacts, the heated press of Derek’s thigh against his firming with every drink. He drops a hand under the table, pressing it to Derek’s leg as his own starts to bounce up and down; Derek covers it with his own, squeezing once, and something settles into place under his breastbone, safe and secure. Cora raises her eyebrows and purses her lips when she notices, but she says nothing.

“Come on, losers, up we get now.” Erica appears at the edge of the table around ten thirty, trailing Boyd behind her with a finger through his belt loop. “Isaac, you’re with me.”

“I’m coming too,” Cora says immediately, grabbing the light jacket hanging from the back of her chair. “I so am not sleeping at Derek’s tonight. Besides, from what I hear my room is occupied by the engaged couple anyway.” She shoots a glare at an oblivious Scott and Allison as she starts to follow Erica through the crowd, waving back at everyone. 

“See you dark and early,” Isaac says as he leaves with an easy smile. 

Derek herds them out of the bar a few minutes later, one hand on Allison’s shoulder and the other pressed lightly to the small of Stiles’ back, hot through the thin shirt. Allison and Scott break into a half-assed game of drunk-tag on the way to the car, taking off and leaving Stiles behind with Derek. He takes the opportunity to suck up his courage and asks, “Is this a pack thing?” 

Derek frowns in confusion until Stiles clarifies, “This. The touching thing you’re doing.”

“Packs are tactile,” Derek says, taking his hand back and lengthening his stride. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows and reaches out to snag his shirt and pull him to a stop. “That’s not what I asked.”

“What did you ask then?” Derek turns back to him, arms crossed over his chest.

Stiles steps forward, front to front with him, and rests a hand on Derek’s crossed forearms. “Is _this_ a pack thing, here, now?”

“Not necessarily,” Derek finally answers, eyes tracking every one of Stiles’ movements.

“I’d be a bit worried if it was,” Stiles admits, grinning. “Not that polyamory is bad or anything. I’m just a little possessive.”

“Possessive implies you intend to keep it for quite a long time. Implies it’s yours.” 

“Is it?” Stiles curls his fingers around Derek’s wrist, tucked between them, and waits.

Derek shuts his eyes, says, “If you want. There’s a lot you don’t understand still.”

“Good thing I love learning.” Stiles leans forward, noses nudging before Derek tilts his head, and then they’re kissing.

Stiles loves kissing, loves the drag of lips against his, the shared breath, loves biting and sucking and touching, pressing forward and in and against like his life depends on it. He takes it slow with Derek, though. It’s light and soft, his grip on Derek’s arm anchoring him until Derek tilts his head further, one hand lifting to settle on the nape of Stiles’ neck. Stiles swallows, breathes in through his nose and drags his bottom lip over Derek’s to break away.

“Still not a pack thing?” he asks, voice low. His fingers flex again. 

“No.” Derek pulls him back in, confident, and Stiles has never been more grateful for getting to know somebody. 

By the time they get to the car, Stiles’ head spins. He feels like the world stuttered to a halt and started rotating the other direction within the past few days, like the fire burned brighter only to push him into his proper place. Three days ago, he had no idea werewolves existed, had no idea Derek could be anyone other than Hale, and now he knows how it feels to be pressed up against Derek’s dick, knows how awkward Erica’s sideburns are, knows with absolute certainty that being taken off fire relief duty won’t tear him away from this group. 

He climbs up into Derek’s Toyota with a private smile on his face, settles into the seat easily and doesn’t start when Derek rests his hand on his knee. 

Allison and Scott disappear into their borrowed room when they get back to the house, and Stiles leans against the counter in the kitchen with a glass of water in his hands, watching Derek standing opposite him. 

“What now?” he asks quietly. His heart thrums behind his ribs, shakes and trembles the way his hands might if he reached out to touch the strip of skin between Derek’s shirt and jeans. He wants to touch that skin, wants to drop to his knees and run his nose across it, wants to widen the gap with fingers and lips and to fit himself somewhere inside. 

Derek shrugs, watching Stiles back. “Now you decide if you meant it when you kissed me. Decide if you still want it, why you want it. If you say yes, we talk. If you say no, we still talk except we probably won’t end up fucking. Either way, the choice is in your hands.”

“Did you make your choice already?”

“I made my choice as soon as you accepted my hand the other night.”

Stiles takes a sip of his water to distract himself, crosses his ankles. “Okay. Talk first, then whatever follows?”

“Yes or no, Stiles?”

“Yes.”

Derek breathes in deep through his nose, nods once before he hops up to sit on the countertop. “You said earlier tonight that you trust me. In a pack, trust is the most necessary of bonds. It holds us together, makes us a cohesive unit, and it establishes a bond of loyalty and honesty. In order to work, it has to go both ways, and I—”

He breaks off, clenching his jaw as he turns his head. Stiles watches him quietly, watches the way he breathes, the way his fingers curl around the edge off the counter. “I have to trust you, Stiles, for you to be fully integrated with the pack. I do, to a degree. More than that, I _want_ to. It’s just...”

“What happened, before?” Stiles asks, piecing things together. Something about the way Derek sits pings his radar and puts him back in his Deputy boots, voice soft and firm and reassuring. It startles him to realize his body language screams victim, that the way he’s curling in on himself speaks of rejection and fear and pain. 

Derek scrubs his hands through his hair. It takes him a moment to gather himself before he continues. “Look, without going into detail, the last time I trusted anyone outside the pack, half of my family ended up dead at her hands. I became a firefighter to prevent her from ever repeating anything like it.”

Stiles’ mind flicks through files in his head, hits upon an old one he must have seen when he was a kid peeking over his dad’s shoulder. It’s blurry, but he remembers the name Hale now, sees the picture of the house up in flames. “The fire at your family’s house was arson,” he realizes. “Why did they declare it an accident?”

“She covered her tracks pretty well, and I couldn’t just come out and say, ‘She pretended to love me and it turns out she’s a werewolf hunter.’” Derek shakes his head, agitated, drumming his fingers on the cabinets below. 

Stiles stares. “Holy shit. Kate Argent,” he says. He knows he’s right even before Derek confirms it with a terse nod. “She’s an arsonist? Why—? _Fuck_. She’s up at base camp still… Nobody knows why she’s even there, do they? But why would she start—”

Derek jerks his head up to stare at him, frowning. “What?”

“Kate Argent is an arsonist. Not convicted, obviously, but she obviously has a history of starting fires as a means of hunting werewolves. Only thing is, the fire started in the middle of nowhere, and nobody knows anything about why she’s at the camp. If what you just told me is true, she could be a suspect.”

“A suspect? In a wildfire?” Derek says dubiously. 

“No, I—fuck, you have to keep this to yourself, but they found three bodies near the spot they think the fire started. As of this week, they’re bringing in the Bureau of Investigation and Park Services, combining all their resources, because they think the fire was set on purpose. They think the three bodies weren’t an accident, that maybe someone set the fire to conceal them, only they reached one of the streams and died there. Instead of the bodies burning to cinders, they were floating at the edge of a riverbank, charred, with something sticking out of their backs.”

“I’ll bet you anything they were shot with arrows.” Derek speaks slowly, staring at him. “Stiles, they’re going to find bolts from a crossbow in those bodies. More than that, they’ll probably find wolfsbane bullets.”

“Scott told me wolfsbane is poison to ‘wolves, more than it is to humans,” Stiles remembers. “If that’s all true, if they get those same findings when they finally get to the bodies, how do we prove it? How do we know it was even her? I could just be jumping to conclusions because she’s been on my radar since she showed up.”

“You have good instincts,” Derek says, tense, eyes trained on the floor. 

“I’m also still a bit drunk, and tired,” Stiles counters. “Fuck.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes; spots dance on the back of his eyelids, fuzzing in and out of existence. 

“You should sleep. We have to leave in a few hours.”

“But—”

“Stiles.” Derek’s touch on his wrist startles him and he jumps, eyes flashing open to see Derek in front of him. His gaze is heavy and serious, stressed, and Stiles sinks back against the counter tiredly. Derek’s fingers sweep back and forth across his skin. “You can sleep upstairs, if you want. I might be up for a while.” 

“You’re not going to sleep? Aren’t you supposed to be driving tomorrow?” 

“Technically, none of us are allowed to drive the Tahoe other than you and Boyd, since we’re not deputies. If Boyd’s up to it, he can drive. If not, Erica will.” 

“You should still sleep,” Stiles argues. He sighs when Derek shakes his head, pitches forward to lean his forehead against Derek’s collarbone and inhales the smell of his sweat, the splashes of beer and someone’s perfume on his shirt. 

“C’mon, I’ll show you up.”

He slips into a pair of Derek’s sweats again, foregoes a shirt as he climbs onto Derek’s bed, yawning, mind still whirring. “Derek—”

He shuts up when Derek reaches forward to kiss him, chaste and lingering. His lips are damp when he pulls back, eyes serious. “Go to sleep, Stiles. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“I—”

“Tomorrow.”

Stiles ends up sleeping against Scott’s shoulder through most of the drive, despite not being able to fall asleep properly last night. Derek sits up front in the passenger seat next to Erica, and from what Stiles can see of him, his arms are crossed and tense, his hair standing straight up on the top of his head. Boyd catches him looking, raises his eyebrows silently, and Stiles jerks his head at Erica in retaliation; Boyd smirks at him, self-satisfied, and Stiles snorts.

“Hey, man, you know you drool?” Scott realizes he’s awake at the noise, looking down at him with a wide grin. 

Stiles scowls and leans up, wiping at his dry chin. “Bullshit,” he mutters.

Scott shrugs. “Worth a shot. You do talk in your sleep though.”

“Unsurprising,” Erica sings from the front; Stiles flips her off from the back bench of the Tahoe, sees her laugh in the rear-view mirror. 

“Why were you talking about wolfsbane?” Allison asks from the seat before them, twisting around to see around him. She looks sleepy, hair up in a messy ponytail, last night’s leftover eyeliner smudged. 

“Was I?” 

“Yeah, muttering about it in my ear,” Scott confirms. “Apparently you have questions even in your sleep.”

“Huh,” he says, yawning. “Is it true wolfsbane doesn’t grow in California?”

“Really, you’re gonna start right in?” Isaac slides up from his slouch to glare at them all. “Some of us are still trying to sleep.”

“Should have done more of that last night, instead of staying up with Cora doing god knows what,” Allison retorts. Isaac flushes at Allison’s accusation, muttering under his breath as he turns toward the window.

Scott grins. “Well, it’s true as far as I know, Stiles.” 

He smacks his lips a bit, settles back against Scott’s shoulder to ask his next question. Isaac and Erica chime in periodically with their own answers as the sun starts rising over the mountains on their left, the radio on low in the background. 

Allison makes Isaac switch her spots when they near the turn-off for lower camp, frowning. “It wasn’t this smoky when we left.” 

Stiles has to agree. When he looks out, white smoke pours out over the sky above, new and plentiful. “Shit,” he says, panic fluttering as he realizes the fire must have grown. “We were only gone for thirty six hours.” 

“I haven’t been listening to my radio.” She presses her fingers against the glass of the window; Scott reaches forward to squeeze her shoulder lightly.

They unload everything from the Tahoe quickly, dress in their uniforms in the open of the makeshift parking lot before taking off toward the mess tent for a quick coffee before debriefing. 

Stiles managed to forget just how frantic base camp is, apparently, as he dodges out of the way of a group of firefighters running toward the rigs. “Jesus,” he mutters, looking around. “What the hell happened?”

“Stiles! Boyd!”

He spins around to see Braeden and Heather waving them down from a group across the way, says a hasty good-bye to the firefighters as they backtrack toward the Deputies. “What happened?” he asks immediately, checking his duty-belt with quick hands, taking a backpack from the pile he passes. 

“The winds changed direction again last night,” Braeden answers, ushering them toward the spot where Tara and his dad stands surrounded by more than a few departments. “The fire line won’t hold, but they’re sending the firefighters further in to try and give us time to pack up and get out. Two wings are closing in to meet in the middle and cut us off.”

“What? When?”

“Soon. They radioed in from the chopper, told us to get the hell outta dodge while we can.”

“And they’re sending the crews in?” Boyd frowns, glancing at Stiles as they hustle forward. 

Stiles’ dad interrupts before Heather can answer, calling everyone to attention hastily. He has to yell a few times before the crowd of law enforcement quiets enough to talk over, quelling anxious side conversations with a glare. “Obviously you all noticed the increased activity around camp. We’re evacuating the camp now and working on the surrounding areas as well. I need all of you to help pack the camp away and set up evacuation routes and times. We’re organizing chaos today, so we need everyone on the top of their game and focused. Cool, calm, and collected, you know the drill. As the firefighters start getting back in later, once they give them the all clear and the order to retreat, we’ll need a few of you to stay behind and guide them out. The smoke is low today and navigation hazy, so please be prepared. Report to your commanding officers for details about your placement.” 

Stiles immediately pushes through to his dad’s side, interrupting an officer from Sonora. “Dad, how long do we have?” 

“Two hours, Stiles, go see Tara.”

Something catches his eye as he turns away and Stiles stands up on his toes to see over the crowd, spots blonde curls and a smiling red mouth before Kate turns away from him, a long black case slung across her back. His heart jolts at the reminder and he stares at the slim case until someone shoves him back forcefully, turning him toward the congregation of Beacon County Sheriff's Deputies clustered around Tara. He tries to find her again, instincts screaming, but between the haze of the smoke and the deputies milling around him, it proves fruitless. 

Tara walks them through the map of evacuation routes, shouting above the cacophony of emergency vehicle sounds and the fire and the helicopter circling overhead, splitting them off into smaller groups with differing tasks. He and Boyd get to work on roping off and evacuation route with a few others, running lines down a path. 

The red rope burns his hands as he spools it out, sweat trickling down the back of his neck and pooling in the small of his back. His heart beats anxiously, fast and strong and loud. He thinks of Allison’s company, thinks of the pack close to the fire, behind the line, and moves faster. Just an hour ago he was sleeping on Scott’s shoulder, surrounded by quiet snoring and soft conversations. 

He thinks of Derek’s hand around his wrist and hopes they all make it out soon. 

They head back up to the main camp site as soon as they finish the evac route, vehicles passing them along the dusty access road. Tara spots them emerging into the clearing, waves them over; Kali passes her extra coils of rope off to Boyd before jogging back to her department. 

“Stiles, Boyd—you’re with Braeden and Bennett, Engine 72 from Jamestown. Most of the camp finished packing up a few minutes ago; it’s time to get the firefighters out. Report back in when all teams are secure and hitch a ride on one of the rigs. I want you available for radio contact at all times. _All times_ , Stilinski.” 

“Copy that,” Stiles says, already anxious to take off for the fire line. “When do we leave?”

Closer to the fire line, Stiles finds the promised chaos from earlier. Engines wait in a neat line, but past the rigs he sees groups of firefighters shouting at one another, people rushing into the tree line and pouring out, soot covered and breathing harshly. Even here the haze of smoke limits visibility.

The deputies accept spare jackets from an engine on its way out before spreading out, focusing in on crew captains to pass the message of departure along. Bennett checks each department off as they emerge on the fire lane again, radios crackling actively above the sounds of heavy boots and loud yells. 

“Has anyone heard from Engine 12’s company? Hey! Listen up! Did Engine 12 report in?”

Stiles’ blood freezes in his veins. He looks up at Allison shoving her way through the crowd of returning firefighters, expression tight with worry as she raises her voice. Her eyes pass over him, desperate, until he’s right up in front of her, hands closing around her biceps. 

“Stiles—” She opens her mouth, has to swallow before she asks, “Did you hear from them? Where are they?” 

“I couldn’t get them on the radio,” he says numbly. “I—I tried, earlier, and it was patchy the entire time, and when I tried again the frequency wasn’t working. I don’t know what happened. I thought they might be out already.”

“They’re still out there,” she says, and her jaw clenches. “My entire crew—my fiance, my _family_ —is out in that fire, Stiles, and they have no idea. They’re going to—”

“They’ll make it out,” he interrupts. “Allison, think about it. I mean, their senses will tell them something is wrong, they’ll figure it out, and if they get hurt, they’ll heal, I mean… right?” He licks his lips, tries to loosen the grip he’s still got on her even as she shakes her head slowly, tightly.

“No, I—no, the fire’s too—it’s too loud, too strong of a smell. They’ll be disoriented and they—oh god.” 

Braeden catches Allison’s elbow as her knees give out, hauls Allison’s arm over her shoulders. “Come on. We need to move, now.”

“No, _no_ , my company is still out there,” Allison snaps, swallowing convulsively. She looks like she’s about to be sick. “Someone has to get them out. We have to _do something._ I can’t abandon them. I _won’t._ ” She tries to pull away from Braeden, stumbles again, and Stiles looks up at Boyd.

“We’ll go,” he says. 

“What?” Braeden’s eyes widen, furious, and she tugs Allison closer, starts pulling her away. “ _Hell_ no, Stiles, you have no idea where they are or how to reach them or—”

“But we can find out,” Boyd says, slowly, carefully; he uncrosses his arms, lifts his head and frowns in concentration. “Fuck. Stiles and I know can figure out exactly where they are. We’ll consult the other teams in their area, work our way in.”

“Like you could even navigate anything right now anyway!” Braeden snaps, kicking out at Boyd’s boots. “The smoke’s so thick you won’t be able to see ten feet at this point and that fire is _moving too fast._ There’s no fucking way you can find them, not like this.”

“We have lines in our bags,” Stiles says, already thinking through the stuff in his backpack. His hands start to sweat as he pulls his bag around to his front, digging through it. “Tie us off and let us go in. They’re only a mile past the tree-line, maybe not even. We’ll turn back if we can’t make it and tug on the line if anything goes wrong, and we can follow it back out.”

“Oh, bullshit! I know you, Stiles, and I know Boyd, and you two are dumb as fucking rocks if you think I’m letting you try this.” Braeden scowls, looks back towards the trees. “You don’t even have enough line for that, Stilinski.” 

“Not true.” Boyd digs into his own bag, pulls out the extra coil Kali handed over earlier and reaches out for Stiles’ as well, finds the ends and starts tying them together. “It’s a mile. That’ll take us, what, fifteen minutes running considering we have to unspool the line?”

“Maybe up to twenty; partly uphill, uneven ground, thick smoke,” Stiles mutters, pulling on the gloves from his bag and looking for anything he can use to cover his mouth. “God, I never thought the times you dragged me to BHCC to run the track would ever be worth anything. I’m supposed to eat donuts and get fat.” 

“ _No_ ,” Braeden yells, furious, and Allison’s staring at them, hands shaking as she realizes exactly how serious they are.

“Let me come,” she blurts, trying to pull away from Braeden again. She looks ready to run, wide eyed and keyed up, trembling in place, like the energy inside her matches that of the fire. Braeden stumbles when Allison shoves her back and steps toward them; she reaches forward forcefully and pulls Allison’s arms behind her before she understands. 

“Okay, if I can’t stop them, I can at least stop you,” she mutters, snapping the cuffs closed as Allison screams, tearing herself away as best she can. Stiles stands, steps forward and presses his hand against her sternum; he catches her eyes, promises, “We’ll find them, Allison. You have to get back to camp, get us an evac vehicle and tell them what’s going on. Radioing this in won’t be enough and you know that. We need you to negotiate for us, okay? Figure out a solution while we’re searching them out.”

“You don’t have proper training to cross that line, or even gear, or—” 

“Allison.” 

She shuts up, staring at him until she wilts back against Braeden, nodding firmly. “Okay. I—okay. Be safe and be quick. Go!”

“You better be alive tomorrow!” Braeden yells as Boyd tugs the line to test the knot he tied around a tree trunk.

“Good to go,” he says, nodding at Stiles. 

He takes a deep breath, glances back over his shoulder at Braeden and Allison running back in towards base camp after the rest of the retreating firefighters. “Does this make us the big damn heroes?” he asks, turning toward the forest.

“More like the big damn idiots,” Boyd mutters.

He grins as they start to push forward.

“How far out were the wings on the fireline?” Stiles pants, stumbling around a tree as Boyd pulls ahead.

“They said maybe an hour, hour and a half before they closed properly. Probably closer to forty minutes.” His partner shakes his head, says, “Fuck, Stilinski, couldn’t you find different friends?”

“Friends are so rare for me, man, can’t let them burn up! And like you would leave Erica out here anyway, you hypocrite." 

Boyd laughs, broken and wheezing around the running and the smoke in the air. Stiles’ eyes burn without relief, his throat tight, feet heavy. He glances at his watch, shakes his head and watches the last of the red line in Boyd’s hands trail back. They halt, leaning over to breathe even as Stiles starts scanning the forest around them. Everything is dark, the smoke heavy in front of them, and the fire roars in the distance, muffled like so much else by their immediate surroundings.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, rubbing at his eyebrow as he straightens up. “Keep in sight, we’ll spend fifteen minutes gathering them up and then we need to book it out of here. Tie the line off around waist-height so we can follow it back easily, maybe?”

Boyd shrugs, looks out over the forest ahead of them as he ties it. “Your radio works?”

“Unit 24 to dispatch.” Stiles starts forward as he tests the radio, nods the affirmative at Boyd and reports in, lets the signal fall silent as he takes a deep breath and yells, “Scott!”

“Erica, Isaac!” Boyd jogs away from him, voice raised, and suddenly he feels the heat, understands the stupidity and uselessness of what they’re doing. 

He swallows, pushes the panic down and away, and shouts again anyway. “Derek! Use your fucking ears, asshole! Hello! Guys? Hey!”

His radio crackles to life a few minutes in, when he’s coughing past the smoke he’s inhaling, Boyd reporting that he’d found Erica and Isaac and they were headed back down the line. “Any sign of Scott and Derek?”

“Negative.” He huffs, wipes a hand across his brow to collect the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes even as he continues scanning the trees around him. “No, god damn it. What did Erica say?”

“They’re supposed to be in your direction. Erica says they lost touch a while ago but they were meant to head in soon. They both seemed pretty disoriented, maybe the smoke inhalation?” 

“An hour from now we’ll be trapped behind the flames. Don’t they work in smoky conditions all the time, anyway?”

“No shit, Sherlock. We’ve got five minutes before we need to leave. Make them count or I’ll have to drag you back alone.”

“10-4,” Stiles says, clicking off the frequency. “Shit. Scott! Derek! C’mon, assholes, answer me!” His body feels weak, shaky in a way he normally associates with the flu, with panic attacks and fainting. It’s not just the air that’s hot now, though it is, heavy and cloying and—he’s sweating, overtaxed and achey, flashlight useless when he shines it out in front of him. The light reflects back off the smoke, shadowy figures of trees indistinct.

“Stiles?”

“I know, Boyd, I know, two minutes. _Fuck._ Hello!”

“I’ve got Scott. He just wandered back, says Derek’s out there still but he’s hurt. Something about—I don’t know, Scott’s not making much sense, he keeps talking about arrows but there’s nobody out here. He needs an escort and you need to get back here ASAP. One more minute and then you turn back, Stiles, no fucking around. We can’t afford it. We got three of them out; it’s better than none plus ourselves.”

“Derek’s hurt? What do you mean, arrows?” Stiles stops, presses his back against a tree and shuts his flashlight off. Maybe it’s not just the smoke and the run sending his nerves awry; maybe he was right to be suspicious of Kate when she left camp earlier with the black case over her shoulder. He forces himself to swallow, thunks his head against the trunk. “Fuck. Boyd, it wasn’t just the wind patterns that pushed the fire around back of the firefighters. I—I think it was helped along.”

“What?”

“Get Scott out of here. There’s something else in the air, I think. It’s—sweet. I couldn’t figure out why it felt so heavy out here.”

“What are you—?”

“Wolfsbane. I think there are patches of wolfsbane out here. Everything I’m feeling sounds like what the ‘wolves described earlier, just at a lower level.”

“Didn’t you just say it doesn’t grow in Califo—”

“Boyd! Get Scott out! He can’t do this by himself. I’m going to find Derek. I’ll keep my radio on low, just… give me five minutes.”

Boyd swears loudly, but Stiles hears him tell Scott to get moving before the frequency clicks off, leaving him alone. He’s not sure he should yell anymore, not sure whether he’s just being paranoid or whether something other than the obvious is wrong. “Fuck it,” he mutters, shoving himself forward again. “I’m gonna die somehow anyway. _Derek!_ Don’t make me howl at you!” 

Shapes filter in on the edge of his vision, blurry and incomplete, shifting with the smoke. He coughs, screams out again with no response as he climbs over a log, landing heavily in a pile of crushed grass. The bootmark imprinted near his sends his heart thumping until he realizes how much smaller it is than Derek’s work boots. “Shit,” he mutters, grinding his teeth. “Fuck her, fuck this. Derek!”

Stumbling nearly blind, he ducks around a dogwood with broken branches and promptly steps on something that rolls under him, tripping roughly. He hisses as he pulls his hands back to himself from the rocks they landed on, goes to push himself up when he finally processes that he stepped on something soft and giving rather than a rock. Stiles’ eyes widen at the sight of Derek’s arm flung across the ground from behind a tree and he scrambles forward, rounds the base of the sapling to see him sprawled out on his stomach, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his waist near his spine. “Oh, shit,” he blurts, hands hesitating before he reaches out to shake his shoulder. “Derek?”

His fingers tremble as he presses them to Derek’s neck. He sighs with relief at the weak pulse he feels before coughing again, wiping at his eyes. “C’mon, buddy, c’mon, we gotta go. Boyd,” he yells into the radio. “Got him! I have him! He’s unconscious but we’re gonna head in.” 

“Can you carry him?” Boyd’s voice crackles a bit on the frequency, still audible. 

“I have to, so yes.” Stiles kneels back on his heels to pull his gloves off and reaches a hand under all of Derek’s layers to lightly brush over the tip of the bolt buried in his side. Blood slicks his fingers and Derek moans softly when he touches the warm metal; when he pulls his hand back, the blood is black in the low light. “Fuck. Okay, leave it in otherwise you might bleed out, right.”

It takes minutes he doesn’t have to roll Derek onto his side and pull him up against him, to get his feet under him and sling Derek more securely across his shoulders. His weight presses down and Stiles gasps for air as he forces himself to his feet, stumbling before he manages to right himself. Derek convulses and shivers against him and Stiles curls his fingers into his uniform pants. “I’ve got you.” 

Seeing past anything further than five feet is hopeless. Sweat slicks his hands and he has to adjust Derek frequently by hitching him higher up, jostling the bolt until Derek whimpers against his neck. He grits his teeth and pushes on, slowly, following his bootprints back to the starting point. Feeling the line they strung at his side lights hope inside him, and he presses his waist against it and walks forward, sliding carefully down the incline and talking nonsense to himself and Derek.

“You’re the fireman, you know. You should be carrying _me_ ,” he mutters, legs shaking. “You weigh fifty tons, dude. I am definitely topping when we fuck for the first time, unless I can’t move, and then you’re topping.” 

Derek’s breathing is harsh and laboured, rough gasps, and Stiles worries about the black lines he can see spreading down Derek’s throat out of the corner of his eye. “Fuck, you better be alive to have sex with me because I’ve wanted to pretty much since I saw you.” 

After a while, Stiles stops talking, focused on breathing and taking each step. Boyd checks in when he calculates he’s about halfway back down the line. “Stiles, what’s your progress?” 

“En route, half mile out.” He coughs, stops to lean against the taut line for a moment. “10-72?”

“You’ve got twenty minutes, Stiles.” A siren starts up in the background of the radio and Stiles winces, turns the volume down. “Get back here _now_. Do you need assistance?”

“No, I’ve got it, just—”

Stiles stumbles as the line breaks, tipping over and attempting to ensure Derek ends up mostly on top. He groans when his chin bounces off the ground, gasping under Derek’s weight across his back. 

His radio beeps loudly. “Stiles?” Boyd calls. 

“Fuck, I’m okay, just, I think the line must have come untied on one end.”

“Not this end.”

“Okay, it’s fine. I’ll just pick it up and follow it back in, no problem.”

Getting up this time is even harder than before, and when he gets a good look at Derek, the black lines are thicker, pulsing through his veins. Stiles swallows, takes out his knife and cuts up from the bottom of Derek’s jacket to the arrow site so he can see it properly—the black lines here spread out in a wide circle, starting to move up around his waist, and Stiles panics. “It’s poisoned,” he realizes, hand shaking as he presses it against Derek’s hip. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Boyd!”

“What?”

“Is one of the ‘wolves with you?”

“I—yeah, Erica’s here.”

“Does wolfsbane poisoning turn your veins black, Erica?”

There’s a short scuffle on the other end before Erica barks, “What? Yes, why?”

“Because I’m watching it happen right now on Derek,” he snaps back. “What do I do? How long do we have?”

“Fuck, oh my god, you have until the wolfsbane reaches his heart, Stiles. I—was it a bullet or—?"

"Arrow," Stiles answers, running a hand up Derek's side when he shudders. He can't pull his eyes from the place where the bolt's embedded. "What do I do?"

"Take it out! He can't heal with it in!"

"Won't that trap the poison inside?"

"I don't know, maybe... The wolfsbane might keep the wound open anyway. Let me make a call, I'll be right back."

The radio goes quiet and Stiles grits his teeth, hauls Derek back up. Carrying Derek while trying to feed the slack line through his hands is an excercise in frustration, but he manages okay until the rope suddenly cuts off. He stares at the smoothly severed end, mind slowly catching up.

"Oh no," he mutters, frantically looking for the other end. "Oh fuck. Derek, wake up, please wake up, she's here."

"Oh, I'm here, alright." Kate smiles as she steps from behind a tree only feet away, crossbow already loaded and aimed. "Smart boy, aren't you, Stiles? That's why you know reaching for your radio or your gun is such a bad idea. Put him down and step back, hands up."

Stiles glares at her, teeth bared as he drops to one knee to slip Derek over his shoulder, rolling him onto his side. He coughs harshly, throat dry and burning, nose full of smoke as he backs up against his will. It feels hotter here, the fire more intense, and Stiles realizes they must be between the quickly-closing wings of the fire. 

"Good boy," Kate praises, smirking. "I'm extremely lucky this week."

"Why, because the fire you set is burning across three counties?" Stiles snaps.

"No, oh, the fire was a bit of an... overachievement, actually. I only meant to kill those three Omegas, but it looks like I got another Hale Alpha out of the deal. Did you know this one killed another of his kind to get that power?"

Stiles' heart lurches and he knows she must be telling the truth. She expects at least Derek to die, probably Stiles as well, and lying would serve no purpose now. 

"Whatever his reasoning, I'm sure it was sound," Stiles says calmly. "If you like, we can look into it at the department alongside another glance at the Hale family fire you took part in."

"So you do know about werewolves, hmm?" 

She steps forward, crossbow still trained on Stiles. She doesn't seem worried about Derek, prone at her feet, and Stiles suspects she's too experienced to ever count a werewolf down for the count unless she's certain. It scares him, her certainty, and he wants to toss a rock toward Derek to make sure he still reacts, even unconsciously. Kate nudges him with her boot, snorts when Derek drops back into his spot. “This one wasn’t even fun. Had no idea I was out there when I shot him earlier, you know? Didn’t even try to run.”

She looks up at Stiles and smiles. “I think it must have been the wolfsbane patches up here. Did you know hunters have started planting it around known territory borders to better catch werewolves? Different varieties with different effects, you know?”

“You’re psychotic,” Stiles blurts, staring at her. “You’re talking about killing people.”

“Now, Stiles, that’s no way to talk to a lady. Didn’t your training with the Academy teach you how to talk a suspect down?” She laughs a bit and crouches down at Derek’s side, reaches forward to pull his jacket up and inspect the wound. “That doesn’t look good for him, now does it?”

The radio on his shoulder beeps to life again, Erica’s voice anxious. “Stiles? You need to get out of there now. We’ll take care of Derek when you get back. You don’t have time right now, okay?”

Kate narrows her eyes. “Take your radio off, slowly, and toss it to your left, or I’ll shoot it while it’s still clipped on to you.”

Stiles carefully lifts his hands, hits the button as he pulls it off. “10-85,” he says clearly, watching Kate as she nods at him. He hates that she has the advantage of knowing the radio codes, that he can’t call in a 10-18 or 10-78. 

“10-13,” Boyd says immediately as he tosses the radio. It crackles until Kate shoots a bolt through it, dropping the crossbow and pulling out a pistol as soon as the bolt clears. 

Stiles grits his teeth, thinks of the pistol on his hip and how he might be able to reach it. Kate shakes her head. “C’mon, honey, you don’t want to think such nasty thoughts. You’re going to die soon, you know. Maybe you should be praying for forgiveness.”

“Nothing needs forgiven,” Stiles says, lifting his hands higher as he shrugs sarcastically. “I’m a regular saint, you know? Especially compared to you.”

“Consorting with murderers isn’t exactly indicative of innocence,” she snaps.

“So what are you, then? Of the three of us in this spot, I’m guessing you’re the murderer.” 

“He’s a _monster_!” She kicks out again, catches the shaft of the bolt through Derek’s side and Stiles swallows harshly, throat protesting, when the bolt moves with a squelching noise and a rough scream from Derek. Kate doesn’t notice, barely looks down, and Stiles hears a crash nearby, knows it was a tree falling to the fire. 

Derek’s eyelids flutter, pained and delirious, and Stiles immediately steps forward to distract Kate, ends up with her gun pressed to his chest, Derek’s waist pressed against his boots; he can feel the expansion of his ribs as he gasps for air. 

“ _You’re_ the monster,” Stiles says quietly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he meets her gaze. 

“I don’t care what you think,” she snaps, finger pulling the trigger back halfway. It’s the first shot she’s fired today on the double-action handgun, more resistance to the pull, and Stiles takes his opportunity, shoves forward over Derek’s body and lands hard on top of her, the shot going off next to his ear. 

He reaches up for her wrist, ears wringing, disoriented, and feels her plunge something into his side, screams out above the roar of the fire. His vision blurs red and black, blonde streaking across his face when she thrashes beneath him and throws him off. He lands heavily on his back, air whooshing out of his lungs even as he reaches for his sidearm, and then Derek drags Kate toward him by the ankle, snarling as she kicks out, startled. 

She hadn’t expected Derek to wake again, that much is obvious, and Stiles manages to train his gun on her as Derek wrestles hers away. His side burns fiercely but he breathes through it, panting in the thin air and fighting not to choke on the smoke as his eyes water. “Jesus,” he gasps. “Put your hands above your head. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can—” He breaks off to cough, his wound protesting angrily, and by the time he’s finished, Derek sits astride her back, holding her wrists together as she attempts to fight him off. 

“I thought you were dying,” Stiles says, rolling onto his stomach and pushing off his knees to stand, swaying, hands already digging for his handcuffs. 

“I am,” Derek growls, squinting down at her. “We need to go. Did someone contact Deaton?”

“Erica was making a call, but I don’t know to who,” Stiles says, kneeling down to grab her wrists. She tries to throw herself to the side, yanking on him, and he tumbles into Derek’s side, grits his teeth. “We’re gonna have matching scars, dude.”

“I won’t scar, assuming I heal,” Derek mutters, pushing himself to his feet. He sways and falls back against a tree trunk, swallowing. “The fire’s close. We have to go now.”

Between them, they lift Kate up, supporting themselves on her arms even as they hold her up. When the fire visibly starts jumping between bushes behind them, Kate stops fighting, starts pulling forward on her own, and Stiles is tired, so fucking tired of this fire. He never wants to see another in his life. 

By the time they emerge on the fire lane, a single engine waits hundreds of feet down the road, sirens blaring; Allison shouts and runs forward to meet them immediately, Boyd following quickly. She reaches out to steady Derek as Stiles yanks Kate to a stop, passes her off to Boyd so he can bend over and throw up. Someone pulls him over to the rig as he heaves, shoves him up and passes him off to Scott, who anxiously goes right for the blood seeping through his uniform. “Oh, shit, get us to a hospital, Isaac.” 

Stiles hears Boyd contacting dispatch, hears codes flying above his head as he sinks back against Scott’s side and the back of his seat, eyes burning when he closes them. “Wake me up later,” he murmurs as a hand closes around his own.

Scott yells triumphantly when he snipes Stiles’ Elite right out of the Ghost, hooting with laughter as his fist pumps, controller still in hand. Stiles glares at the small TV above his hospital bed, watching anxiously to see whether he’ll respawn close to the rocket launcher he desperately needs.

“Dude,” Scott says, grinning, “We’re actually even on kills.”

“I’m never just _even_ , Scott! I am reigning king at Halo at the department!” Stiles yells, frantically running for cover as he respawns in the open. “Oh my god, you fucker!”

“You’re on order for hospital rest, man. If you can’t calm down, the nurses will totally disconnect the Xbox,” he warns, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrates on getting a shot off. “My mom only holds so much sway here.” 

Stiles glares at him, argues, “It wasn’t even that deep! A few stitches, no major organs, and everyone acts like I got _shot with a bolt laced with wolfsbane_.”

Scott pauses the game and turns to look at him, abruptly serious. “Look, Stiles, I told you—Derek’s fine. Deaton was able to patch him up and he just needs to rest. _You,_ on the other hand, suffered from severe smoke inhalation and damaged not only your throat, but your lungs, _plus_ you were stabbed.”

He sighs and tosses his remote down to the foot of the bed. “This just sucks, dude. I hate hospitals, I hate needles, I hate being confined to a bed. And I fucking hate the oxygen tubes!”

“Next time don’t nearly die in a fire,” Scott says nonchalantly, unpausing the game while Stiles’ remote is still by his feet and taking advantage of the opportunity. “Take that, asshole!”

Stiles cracks up, watching Scott accidentally hit the gasoline barrel next to himself. Scott growls under his breath as he respawns away from his beloved sniper rifle and Derek steps into the room, eyeing them trepidatiously. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, staring. 

Derek glances from Scott to the TV screen and shakes his head, hand still on the door handle. “You shouldn’t encourage him. He made Isaac cry last time.”

“Isaac sucks at Halo,” Scott points out, pausing the game again and looking between them. “I’m gonna go get a Gatorade though, man. If I come back and you’ve killed me thirty times to end the round, I’m never going easy on you again.”

Stiles barks out an incredulous laugh as Scott slips out the door, closing it behind him and trapping him with Derek. He swallows and looks down at the sheets, picking at a loose thread absently, stomach locked in knots. 

From what Scott told him when he woke up three days ago, Stiles managed to get everyone out alive, though barely. Kate had been taken into custody to await questioning, Deaton had taken Derek as soon as the got to Beacon Hills, and Stiles ended up in the hospital with stitches, an IV drip of fluids, and an oxygen treatment regime. Supposedly they’re moving him home to Beacon Hills tomorrow, but they’ve yet to disconnect his IV.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks lowly, finally looking up at Derek. Derek scowls at him, arms crossed over his chest, and Stiles finds himself glaring back, annoyed. “Look, dude, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I expended a lot of effort trying to make that a possibility.” 

“I noticed,” Derek bites out. “Considering the fact that you nearly died.”

“Well, I didn’t, and obviously _you_ didn’t, so I count it in the success column.”

Derek snorts and finally sits down in the chair at his bedside, shaking his head. He looks good, if tired, all his wounds healed. Stiles envies him the superfast healing; his own throat still feels like someone smoothed it down with sandpaper or steel wool. 

“It was stupid, Stiles.”

He shakes his head, incredulous, and flings his arms up, forgetting the IV until it tugs at his wrist uncomfortably. “Oh my _god_ , Derek, yes! Yes, it was stupid! I knew that going in and I _didn’t care_.” 

“I _do_ care!” Derek snaps, eyes bright. Stiles realizes he’s not imagining the ring of red around his irises.

“So do I, asshole!”

Derek pauses, mouth open, and his shoulders slump suddenly as he turns his face away. “Fuck,” he mutters, clawing through his hair. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re stupid.” The look he gets for that one clearly judges him for the lack of brilliance on his part, and Stiles purses his lips. “Shut up,” he mutters. 

“Look, Stiles, I just… I’m mad because you risked your life for mine. I’m mad because I put you in that position. If I hadn’t—”

“I would have done that no matter what happened between you and me,” Stiles interrupts. 

“Okay, but regardless of that—”

“Even though what happened—I mean, even though we were—whatever—what I mean is, I couldn’t let you go,” Stiles says, breathing through it. “I want too much from you, and for you, and I just—” He trails off with a sigh. “Look, if you changed your mind or whatever, I’d understand. No pressure or anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A few things, I don’t know. I have another headache. I think I’m talking about us, and then the pack as a whole, and—fuck it. I have no idea. I’m just happy you’re okay, to be honest.”

Derek stares at him for a moment before he shakes his head and stands up; Stiles looks away, disappointed, and jumps when Derek touches his forearm softly, glances back to find Derek leaning over him. The red in his eyes fades back to gray-green, soft and fond in a way that reboots Stiles’ heart. Hearing it on the monitor makes his face flush as Derek brushes a kiss over his forehead. “I’m glad you’re okay too. Don’t ever make me worry that way again.”

“No promises,” Stiles says weakly, grinning. “I’m a regular trouble magnet.”

**Author's Note:**

> all thanks go to [linsa](defyexpectations.tumblr.com) for helping to preserve my sanity and for talking me through all my weird freak outs. mostly for putting up with me tbh, and for the last minute beta. all remaining mistakes are mine for rushing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Dance of Days [FANART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090138) by [Cock-speed (Lautremonde)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lautremonde/pseuds/Cock-speed)




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